When I was young — perhaps 8 or 9 years old — I started to have a recurring set of nightmares that felt different to any other.
The features were always the same — a garden; flower beds; children; some kind of accident; people screaming. When I woke up, though, the nightmare would continue.
I’d be unable to move in my bed, and I could hear a cacophony of voices all talking at once, overlapping each other, right next to my ear and in my head but so clear that I could almost make out their conversations.
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