I'm pretty certain there wasn't a soundtrack, and if there were it would be unlikely that it would be South African house music, but big up to Culoe the Song anyway. And there most certainly is an insistent rhythm to the dreams. There is a non-stop beat. There is a pulse.
Where is it that we go when we dream. It's out there in some infinite space, beyond any limitations of time, and anything and everything good and bad is possible. I know that only because of the way it feels when I'm returning. It's like coming back through a funnel, the passage becoming more and more narrow as it goes, and then into an eyedropper where I'm forced through a very small duct, a single drop back into my world, or this world at any rate. It may not be mine but I'm here. Back into this world, in a small room, on a small bed, gasping and clutching at the bedclothes and pillows, looking for a sense of solid ground but still acutely aware that the Universe is very very small.
Reality is tiny, maybe limited by my own vocabulary. If there are no words for it, it might be easier not to see it at all. It's too taxing to have a word for everything, isn't it? It's got to be exhausting to notice every single detail, so the brain shuts it out. It ceases to exist until you fall asleep again and climb back up through the pipette into the infinite universe.
I wake up in the morning, every morning, with a vague memory of having been running all night.