purple, the colors tumbling over one another, surging and swirling, and you are being drawn into it. . . .
He moaned softly, adjusting his head as if doing so would clear the images from his mind. Strange images, in color. This was odd; usually he dreamt in black and white.
And the world is there, a world racked with lightning, cloudy and terrible-looking. A place you've seen before, in the dimmest and most faint of nightmares, a place that has been part of human consciousness since humanity first staggered from the primordial ooze.
And it is there, the Black Tower, as ancient as death itself. It rises two miles straight up into the sky, looking at once manufactured and organic, as if half of it had been grown, and the other half constructed. Lightning rips through the sky, and you feel cold, so cold. There is a miasma of color burning itself into your soul.
You approach the Tower, and find your gaze, your attention, your very soul, drawn toward one window in particular. You sense that the window is several stories tall, and there's something within, moving so quickly, darting past the opening, pausing now and again to look out at you from within, and then receding once more. But you sense it rather than see it, sense its incredible age, and a smell wafts to you.
Your eyes sting a bit, as if you've entered a smoky room, and you choke on something you can't see, and then the smell is suddenly sweet, the most wonderful thing you've ever experienced, and it pulls you closer to the Tower, closer to the window, closer, and you see flashing tentacles, and scales and mouths and eyes, the eyes, they are looking right at you, they have noticed you, you have drawn its attention and there is terror within you such as you have never known as it reaches out to you, its