At the midnight hour as spinning ribbons of smoke drifted from warm candles and the walls fell dark room by room, when the pages of the novel closed and the only remaining sounds were the ticks of a circulating ceiling fan surveying the room, she surrendered her lassitude to capture by dreams. She craved the capture. She lay still, breathing steadily; she let herself become the prey, her only predator being the gentle caress of her subconscious imaginings. In sleep she found release. In dreams she found her peace.  The weight of the day lifted and the haze accompanied by a mundane itinerary dissipated. Her mind became a blank slate. It craved color and it craved experience. It craved a distraction. She faded in and out of consciousness; she fell in and out of dreams. On some nights she would be gifted with abundant dreams, while others were spent in a blank rest. She dreamt of things foreign and unfamiliar, of people she’d never seen and situations she hadn’t experienced. She dreamt of united coalitions defending the homeland against villainous rivals and Parisian galas with aplomb attendees indulging in the decadence. Sleep relentlessly pulled her in deeper while sweet nothings transcended those awaiting her return. Why would she ever leave? On occasion, she would awake in the night to find she had won the lottery, three more hours. Would she revisit a previous dream, or be immersed in a new one? Only one way to find out.