On a warm May afternoon, a man fell asleep amid the twisted roots of an oak tree.
And there he dreamed a dream of a new world.
And when he awoke, he wrote down his dream and he placed it next to his breast to keep it safe. And he fell back to sleep, knowing that he had seen a new world and knowing that he had seen how it could come to pass.
This is not the story of the dream. It is the story of the dreamer and his lifetime of torment. For when he awoke the second time, he could not remember the dream. And when he looked at the record of the dream he could not read what he had written.
This is my story.