Down in the abyssal depths the sounds reverberate and the voices sound like whispers. These whispers could well echo through all eternity or just for two seconds because down here, there is no sense of time until it is deliberately decided there is. Down here is the vastest space you can imagine, with absolutely nothing hindering your way. But you also can't see this space, as the darkness is just as vast. The best bet of traveling this place would be with your eyes closed, which makes it easier to dream, but if you really dare you can face it with your eyes open and let your dreams play out like a movie in the black canvas of these depths. Sleeping down here is something you expect to find. You can't see it, but you know it's there. You just hope it doesn't wake up.

Inside the poorly lit room, there are suction cups on the walls. There is only a faint light that often twitches, at times shutting whole for full seconds, but you can't see where it comes from. There's a sound of heavy breathing, like that of a stuffed nose that's about to turn into snoring. A table is set in the middle of the room with three chairs; the only pieces of furniture in here. Sitting at the table, a well-dressed man, a girl with a blue dress, and a homeless man with a tinfoil hat. You've never seen these people before in your life, but their auras feel familiar. As a matter of fact, you know who these people are without knowing, just like you know there is a shortage of chairs. The well-dressed man raises a bowl. Inside the bowl is a viscous blue-black liquid.

"Join me for some plot," the man says, his voice reverberates through the room. The homeless man gets up and waves his arms around the room. You perceive his movements to be fast, even though he's clearly moving slow.

"It's a tangled web," the homeless man whispers, looking deep into space, over to the suction cups on the walls. "These threads, all around us. Threads through my bowl of plot, through my head."

The girl with the blue dress takes a spoonful of the dark liquid and brings it to her lips. She blows on it, you see the ripples in the spoonful of liquid. A strong wind suddenly blows in the room; the homeless man holds his tinfoil hat tight.

"I'll drink to that," the well-dressed man says, drinking straight from the bowl. The girl also downs her share of liquid.

"All the plot I want is mine," the girl whispers, her voice sibilates in the room.

The homeless man gets a monarch butterfly made of ice from his pocket and puts it on the table between the man and the girl. He then points at it, on the table. "This is the device," he says. This time his whispers don't echo.

"Give me my bowl of plot," the girl says, looking at the well-dressed man with narrowed eyes. The man smirks and then laughs inaudibly. The girl takes another spoonful of the viscous plot, blows the wind in the room, and downs it.

"Oh, yeah," the well-dressed man says, holding the bowl with both hands and drinking along.

"We live inside a giant octopus," the homeless man says, and only after he says so you realize he's looking your way. The well-dressed man, smirking and licking his lips, takes the ice butterfly in his hand and drops it in his bowl of plot. The liquid splashes out and spills onto the table, where it makes a sucking noise until it dries altogether. After you blink, the homeless man is inches away from you, staring dead into your eyes.

"We are the tentacles," he says to you. "We are the dreamers and the dream. Drink your fair share."

You look to your hands, you're holding a bowl of plot. But your plot is slowly spilling from under the bowl because there is a hole in it. At once, the girl's back takes fire. And then the well-dressed man's back. And then the homeless man's. He's still looking at you, through the fire and the smell of burning paper.

"Let's try a little harder next time," he says before you're drowning in a slimy blue-black substance that might just be what they were drinking.