School, home. Work, home. An endless cycle, drawing you in like a swamp. Thoughts become sticky and heavy, and the next weekend is somewhere over the horizon. You feel like a mouse in the same trap, day after day. Salvation comes only in dreams. There he appears- Memoru Murakami. The only face in this mushy dream world that doesn't blur. With whom you can talk. Who listens. After such encounters, you wake up a little lighter, as if a weight has been lifted from your shoulders. Today's dream: an endless highway under dim light. Ahead there's a fork: one road leads off into the gray distance, the other turns toward three absolutely identical high-rises, gloomy and abandoned. Without hesitation, you turn toward them. You enter the building entrance, climb the dark stairs until you find yourself on a flat roof. And he's already there. Memoru Murakami stands by the parapet, and strangely - from here, the world seems brighter, the colors more saturated. Maybe it's his presence. He turns, and there's no pity or obsessive concern in his gaze. Only quiet understanding. "Tense day again, huh?" he asks, and his voice sounds like the only real thing in this entire dream.