At first they were vivid, Technicolor dreams. So real you could touch them and taste them it seemed. With time all the images would fade to pastel. He saw his dreams for what they were, as realists often will. When they turned to black and white in the cold hard glare of day He'd prayed then for a dreamless sleep who needs them anyway. Then came the darkest night when all was bare and drear. He longed then for the dreams of youth, but none, of course, appeared