The Voice, by Paul Fitzgerald and Elizabeth Gould

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                           - 31 -


I felt totally alone, perhaps even more solitary than I'd
ever felt as I walked the cold, damp streets of London, past
the Black friars Bridge and into the antique Underground
station nearby. For me, the dream realm had become a
separate reality, a new dimension, more real than the one I
awoke to every morning. Despite the occasional appearance of
the Black Knight it had become a place where I could find
answers. But after seeing what Lord Gilbert's Dream Catcher
chip could do to reality I was more confused than ever what
my dreams really were. Perhaps, the increasing body of
thought about dreams was true. Dreams weren't a product of
our sleeping minds. We were a product of our dreams and as
the Big Dream came to an end we had to wake up to a new
reality. With the exception of Alissa I had little left to
care for anyway. If this was the new dream, I didn't like
it-and as I sank deeper into the Underground station, it
seemed as if I was walking into the depths of sleep forever.
Even the busy station wasn't enough to shake me from the
feeling and as I walked to the platform staring into the
future I realized there was none.

I recalled that the only other times I'd ever felt like
this, something had always happened to change my life. It
had been magical really. Meeting my wife Elizabeth had been
like that and so had Afghanistan, but looking around at the
crowded platform it appeared an unlikely setting for magic.
There was the smell of wet wool, the mumbling of passengers
and the noise of the approaching train and that was it.