Wake up with a word.

Some feelings have no word yet. Each dream you write becomes one, and some of them will lead you to other dreamers.

Every dream leaves a door open.

Sink through it.

Feelings older than any word.

Touch up to four. Whatever they are together is yours to name.

Nothing woven yet.

Down here, every dream you keep is still playing.

Each on a channel of its own, captioned with the words it gave you.

昔者莊周夢為胡蝶，栩栩然胡蝶也。

Once, Zhuangzi dreamed he was a butterfly, fluttering, glad, knowing nothing of Zhuangzi. Then he woke, and was Zhuangzi again, and could not tell whether he had dreamed the butterfly, or the butterfly was now dreaming him.

Which of you is dreaming now?

Or begin with your name.

It is read by its sound into a world, and woven into a word of its own.

Type a name to hear it.