The roots of the flowers of the mind go deep - to where the darkness is so dark that the Supreme Light seems like a shadow. There the seeds of dreams await their time, and each one ripens and opens in its turn to reveal its own letter into the world, which is more a sound than a sign. The sleeper becomes something like a musical instrument - a trumpet or violin. And to the same extent that a violin or a trumpet does not remember yesterday's music, people do not remember their dreams. Dreams are intertwined in spaces inaccessible to people during waking hours. Flowers of dreams bloom quickly - in a matter of minutes or moments, but fade for a long time. Sometimes a grandfather’s dream continues to be dreamed by his grandchildren and his grandchildren’s grandchildren. Sometimes an old dream hurts like a wound that has not healed, sometimes it warms like a memory of a moment of happiness experienced in distant childhood. A person deprived of sleep begins to daydream; and those who are deprived of this too become like a dream...