text: I tossed and turned in that limbo between sleep and lucidity - a grown man with a beard - giggling like a schoolgirl as I rolled over in my sheets. Earlier I had dropped onto the bed in blurriness and shame; even after four bottles of lager I couldn't shake the feeling of failure. I hadn't produced a single worthy paragraph all day. Ever since Sian left weeks ago, so had my inspiration. Though, in my current state, I was laughing. I knew I was dreaming, but I was so immersed that it didn't matter. Somewhere in the canvas of my mind, an unknown entity was typing out paragraphs for me on a Word document. I found this hilarious. It was just so indescribably weird to see my work get written out for me. And it *was* my work. Of that I was sure. The dream wasn't lucid enough to make out the sentences or the words, but I felt sure that whatever was being written, it was being done with the intention of helping me. I felt each sentence slot in so satisfyingly like the long-lost pieces to a beloved puzzle. It was kind of whispering to me too. Though, whispering isn't the right word. It was speaking to me silently; that is, I recognised the occasional specific set of letters, but the mood and feeling of the communication was more abstract. It was mischievous and intelligent. It seemed to really enjoy writing. I kept thanking it, chuckling as more words appeared. This is amazing! I thought. As the alcohol in my blood ran thinner, and the night moved closer to morning, I became more and more aware of the outside environment, yet strangely the dream became more vivid in my imagination. I could now picture the Word document much more clearly, and I could make out the individual sentences. They read: "I first came through the porch in the cold. No one was there, so I moved up the stairs. I opened the closest door and found a man. I took him away." And this was repeated over and over and over. Panic shook me from my hazy state. I shot up from the bed and darted eyes across my bedroom. The closest door to the stairs was my flatmate's room. "Danny?" I shouted. No reply. I walked out into the hallway with my pyjamas and knocked on his door. It was open, but I know Danny always slept with his door closed. I pushed it all the way. His bed was empty and curtains were flapping out of an open window. After searching the whole flat twice, I knew Danny was gone. I closed my eyes and imagined the Word document again. The ending sentence had changed, or maybe I just hadn't realised it the first time. My body filled up with dread as I realised the implications: "Tonight, I will try a new door.