Werner Herzog dreams alone.

Or he doesn't dream, claims to not dream. The two go hand in hand; the dream and its persistent claim. The clouds shrink when he sleeps. Silhouettes stop whispering. The clock's shadow doesn't tick on time.

Let's get this straight: In a world where there is no dreaming, Werner Herzog wakes up every morning. Leila, too, wakes up every morning. You, too, wake up every morning. Werner doesn't dream. Leila doesn't dream either. I don't know about you; according to some, I may be the one and only person that sees your dreams. According to others, we haven't even met. The equation and the odds are as good as we make them.

There's an essential difference between Werner and Leila; Werner claims to not dream. Leila says she dreams, but in actuality, she doesn't. She is too scared to be someone who doesn't dream. (Also note that Leila and Werner do not know each other)

She makes up dreams, to tell people, as if she dreamt them. She thinks she can construct them as freely as she can since they are dreams and do not need to make sense or ride on the logistics of the awake-life. She builds them with apparitions, hopes, regrets, ghostly wishes, reverse disappointments but mostly with secret code she derives from moments when people (we) misunderstood her.

In the back alley, the birds stood around waiting for the sky to fall in; bright day, come gather, shrinking clouds and all; the carnival was about to begin. Weapons were dropped; her sirens silenced, she looked beautiful at dusk. Only if we could understand the little glimmer, she wouldn't have made up all these dreams, all the half-truths and unusable lies.

But we didn't. Nor did we stop to wonder what it was we wanted from her. She spoke, surely, she spoke in tongues and codes from a land we weren't allowed in. She called it bad land, crooked land, broken land, an edge; a tiny thin line between what we referred to as reality and she referred to her as, well, herself. Constantly balancing on the fishing line between us (us people who buy and sell) and a strange endless ocean behind her, back there. It is not that she knew what that ocean was made of. She swam there nevertheless. Amongst kelp, shipwrecks and seaweed. No fish lived there. Fish lived over here. Fish lived with us.

And then me. There's me, that's where I come in. If you can believe this, I was there, on top of a blind horse, gaging, trying to figure out which way the dirty wind was actually blowing. Dusty road, I thought, I can blame it all on the dusty road. This horse isn't sick, he is just blind! And now come on, in this world, there is no real left or real right so what's the use of sight?!. One with another for one without the other couldn't just be one another.