We walked down the corridor. Each wall was in fact a book shelf, so high the ceiling was shrouded by dark shadows. Ancient tomes of leather and cloth spines fill the shelves, a utopia of fact and fiction.

“Well, this is terrible,” Mark said, more to the darkness than to me.

“Whatever do you mean by that? This place is heaven!” I respond.

“Exactly! A library so tall you cannot see the ceiling, and books older than my grandfather. This place does not exist in the dimensions of reality. I am either dreaming, or I am dead.”

“That’s a decidedly morbid thought,” I return, “I highly doubt either of us is dead, so we are dreaming. And if we are dreaming, is it not a good dream? A world of books and knowledge, a myriad other worlds stored within these walls?”

“I suppose you’re right.” He seemed to grow significantly calmer. We return to walking. Strolling down the endless corridors of this great library.

Little did we know that in the real world, the life was ebbing from our cold forms with every heart beat.