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A recorded reading of “The Town That Dreamed It Was Real”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
The streets were straight, the clocks were set, the people smiled with no regret. The doors were locked, the stars were bright, and yet, the town still dreamt at night. The baker wakes at half past four, the cobbler sweeps his tiny store. The mayor waves, the children run— the cycle starts, the cycle hums. The church bells toll, the windows shine, the train pulls in, exactly timed. And yet, beneath this quiet scene, the town still twitches in its sleep. Did we build this place, or did it build us too? Did we paint the sky, or was it always blue? The roads don’t end, the clocks don’t slow, the seasons shift, but nothing goes. If we wake up, what will we find? Was this a dream we left behind? A painter swears he lost the moon, a mother hums a broken tune. The train arrives but never leaves, a whisper weaves between the trees. The mayor speaks, but words feel thin, the cobbler blinks and starts again. The baker stares—his hands look wrong. He swears they moved before too long. Maybe dreams don’t need a host. Maybe towns don’t need a past. Maybe we were only ghosts, playing roles that couldn’t last. The roads don’t end, the clocks don’t slow, the seasons shift, but nothing goes. If we wake up, what will we find? Was this a dream we left behind? The music box plays on… out of tune. "Perhaps we all were only scenes… just borrowed lines inside a dream."
Lyrics
The streets were straight, the clocks were set, the people smiled with no regret. The doors were locked, the stars were bright, and yet, the town still dreamt at night. The baker wakes at half past four, the cobbler sweeps his tiny store. The mayor waves, the children run— the cycle starts, the cycle hums. The church bells toll, the windows shine, the train pulls in, exactly timed. And yet, beneath this quiet scene, the town still twitches in its sleep. Did we build this place, or did it build us too? Did we paint the sky, or was it always blue? The roads don’t end, the clocks don’t slow, the seasons shift, but nothing goes. If we wake up, what will we find? Was this a dream we left behind? A painter swears he lost the moon, a mother hums a broken tune. The train arrives but never leaves, a whisper weaves between the trees. The mayor speaks, but words feel thin, the cobbler blinks and starts again. The baker stares—his hands look wrong. He swears they moved before too long. Maybe dreams don’t need a host. Maybe towns don’t need a past. Maybe we were only ghosts, playing roles that couldn’t last. The roads don’t end, the clocks don’t slow, the seasons shift, but nothing goes. If we wake up, what will we find? Was this a dream we left behind? "Perhaps we all were only scenes… just borrowed lines inside a dream."
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