Dreams

These are real. I dream them, write them down, and a machine paints them from my notes. They sit out here in the fog — whatever you look at becomes clear.

A red-haired woman in a tight electric-blue dress next to a van. An old fisherman walking toward the woman leaving a blue house behind him. He is also dressed in blue. The sea is tumultuous, and a three-meter-high wave is about to crash against the house.
My zombie family and a blue sea scene

There are more of them out there. The fog is not empty; it is patient.