who is this sandman and what has he brought me?

I dream. I dream as soon as my head hits the pillow, and it doesn't cease until I awaken. Until I came to this city, this phenomenom was utterly foreign to me. Now they come to me in full force, evry moment of sleep now full of half-formed memories and ideas viewed from across sheets of misted glass. I have come to accept in a more complete fashion the idea that what I learn within the realm of dreams is something that I can actually take with me to the waking world. More importantly, I almost feel that the sensation of transition from dreaming to waking carries with it something so strange and so vital that to recognize it and isolate it may be crucial. That brief fleeting moment wherein all previously retained knowledge is in the midst of being carried back to the dreamland from where I retreived it.
And where do I go in these moments of sweet slumber? No places of note, surely not. The people are what I remember in these strange times that may or may not have actually happened. Young girls fallen under my influence, that endless dance between me and whoever I see. Men and boys in various states, mostly irrelevant, bit players in a production of my assembling. Boys seem to be present in my dreams solely to present that proper sense of competition while I'm engaging in my... pursuits. Other nights are of a separate purpose, a search for something I am destined to never find, or the crushing feeling of being hunted like an animal, that savage and primitive sensation that gives you the impression you are barely seven inches tall. Perhaps one day soon I will decipher the meaning of this new onslaught of memory, this rushing torrent arising from the center of sleep, and the discovery of this knowledge will perhaps complete me, or at least put together yet one more piece of the puzzle.