We spend, on average, a third of our lives asleep, but the summer sun finding its way into my room well into the evening leaves little room for thoughts of slumber. Blades of light that pierce through even the smallest gap in my closed blinds can pull my mind away from rest, and while I virtuously choose not to roll into the next episode on Netflix in favour of calling it a night, sleep is nevertheless hard to come by. But if sleep itself is difficult, what of our dreams?
My earliest recurring dream was when I was in primary school. It began with me playing in the street, when, suddenly, a red car filled with monsters would pull up. They’d drag me into the car and then drive at speed into a brick wall. I would wake up just before
