Every morning I wake and I feel the cold upon me. Too early in the season to close the windows, too early to turn on the radiators. But I still fell this cold, and it never feels natural. The cold brings a damp chill with it, not like the clean dry cold of the deep winter, but a chill of dank decay, which makes my skin feel moist and clammy no matter what I do. So I put on woolen socks, and bundle up under heavy blankets, and go to sleep and dream. And dreaming is something I do very often. Not dreams I would like to have, but dreams that permeate me, dreams that make me sad and sick, dreams that keep me frozen in my bed, even when I wake up. Dreams that beg me to go back to sleep, dreams that whisper truths that I need to hear. So I stay in bed, bundled beneath blankets, attempting to go back, so I can revisit those lost dreams. It always seems so close. Like they are about to tell me exactly what I need to know. And then I wake up, and they are all lost, and for once my mind is cleared of the chaos, but, the message was gone, and will not come back. I had a dream like that last night. Like all dreams, they are fleeting, but I will recount it as best I can. I was at my childhood home. A large, three-story row-house on a hill in Philadelphia, with a large wooden back-porch, one which allowed us to see the skyline of Philadelphia. Only there was a storm approaching. Thick and viscous and swirling with fearsome lightning, it approached the skyscrapers of Center City, and all the buildings around it, and stopped. Like a gruesome fog, it hid all of it from us. We were all still in the summer light, the heat of the sun blaring down upon us. Myself, and a odd arrangement of friends, from childhood and adulthood and teenage years in between. All on my Father's porch. All watching the Storm swallow the center of our city. So with no logical reason, as most Dreams don't obey logic, we made ladders and used the ladders to cross, roof to roof, attempting to venture down into Center City, to see what had become of it. But the Sun was hot. And the Sun was bright. And the people inside of their houses were panicking. As we crossed, towards that awful, malevolent storm, rooftop after rooftop burst into flames, leaving us with no way to backtrack if we needed to. So we drew closer, running across tar-papered roofs and climbing onto ever higher buildings, towards the storm, towards the swirling chaos of clouds which could not be seen into, and we got there. We got to the brim of it. The border. And people were running out of it, screaming, flailing limbs, never looking back. So I woke up, instead of venturing into it. And I tried to go back to sleep. I wanted to see the inside of the storm. I wanted to see what had put the fear into the men I had seen, when I was dreaming. But the dream was over. It could not be returned to. No resolution. No salvation. No Doom. Just the thought of what could've been inside there.