In my dream, the images of the day visited me in their distortions. Again, the membranous walls surrounded me, though the light that came through was of a different, softer hue and the wall met the floor in a concave arch. Among the panes, I recognised one whose corner I had previously begun to peel, though it seemed now to be set higher in the wall and I had to stand on my toes to reach it. It felt rigid, almost brittle in my hand and, when I pressed at the lower panes, they, too, were hard and unyielding.
Confused, I stood in the centre of the room, bathed in dreamy sunset colours, wondering where I had seen a similar effect before, and was reminded of a large alabaster window in the Vatican City. Turning full circle in my prison, I realised, with rising fear, that I was inside the vial
