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There is a place where Gods are born. There is a place where a few ragged sounds can suggest a symphony. A place where pandemonium presents pattern where idle fancies turn to fornications and memories feign memories. A place where... for as long as sleeper can sleep... stories are spun. And so listen. Listen, now. At the heart of the Dreaming sits a castle. At the heart of the castle, a library. And in the library... a Librarian...
Why the glare, Dora? Do you truly hate me so, to cause much trouble? Didn't I give you a home? Didn't I give you sanctuary?
I'm not sure I'll be too sorry if he decides to unmake you.
The Dreaming belonged to Morpheus. H-he fell. It belonged to Daniel. A-and he left us. And so now it's yours.
Even if you can beat the Judge... the Dreaming... it's sick. It's dying!
Everyone dreams the Dreaming.
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