Poet Anderson ...Of Nightmares by Tom DeLonge Page A

seemed to flick in and out of focus, changing like chameleons. He was reminded of a story Alan told him after he’d read about it in one of the sleep studies. He said that dreams were alive, and sometimes, they became grounded here—living on in this reality, independent of the dreamer.
    This was the Dream World: a solid reality with its own natural laws and people—almost like another dimension. And this was Genesis. The city mentioned in the study that Alan took as gospel.
    Poet’s lips flinched with a smile—he couldn’t believe it was real. Alan had been right. “This is Genesis,” he told his friends.
    â€œYou know, I always thought you were full of shit,” Sketch said, glancing at Poet. “When you first told us about this, got Gunner all excited about “the city”; wouldn’t shut up about it. I thought you were just messing around, but I have to admit, I’m glad I’m wrong. This place is fucking awesome!”
    Maybe Poet was clinging to blind hope, but as he looked around, he truly believed this was where he’d find Alan. His brother was asleep, and when he slept, he dreamed. They dreamed together. The fact that Alan had disappeared from his dreams told Poet he’d gone somewhere else. This was the only explanation. A coma is a deep sleep, and Alan had always told him they needed to go deeper if they hoped to find the city. Alan was here. Poet just knew it.
    Poet darted his eyes from high-rise to high-rise, face to face. Moving billboards were on giant telescreens, and cars rocketed along tracks painted across the black sky. Lights and people were everywhere. Even the people who weren’t quite natural, those who seemed to be made from dreams, went about their business like they had important places to go. This world was their reality. And now that Poet was here, it was his reality, too.
    Poet, Sketch, and Gunner got to the end of the block where the road split into a night-club version of Times Square. There were flashing lights, music videos on the giant telescreens. At that corner the world went up so high, Poet couldn’t even find the sky anymore.
    The image changed on one of the largest of the building-screens, and Poet had to squint against the brightness to see, lifting his palm to shade his eyes. And then there he was, Poet Anderson—standing in the middle of Genesis, staring up at the screen.
    Gunner shouted and ran over, pointing up at the image. “That’s us!” he yelled. Sketch laughed and huddled into the picture too, but Poet felt unsettled. They were being watched, and that was certainly not a sign of good things to come.
    â€œI told ya,” Sketch said, throwing his arm around Poet’s neck, and pulled him in before letting him go. “Everyone loves Poet Anderson,” he said. “A fucking legend.”
    Poet wasn’t sure how true that was, although he had met people on the train before who had said they’d heard of him. He felt as if he’d been on that train forever.
    That was the thing about dreams: there was no sense of time—everything was infinite. You could be running late forever, never catching up. You could become best friends in an instant. So when Poet first met Sketch and Gunner on that train, it was like he’d always known them. When he told them about his brother, they agreed to help him search for the city. And now they’d finally found it.
    Poet turned away from the screen and, almost as if in response, the screen went back to shots of the city intermixed with a music video. Poet turned around found his friends across the street at a vendor stand. The writing on the sign was unintelligible, impossible for him to read. Sketch and Gunner were laughing, sipping bottles of purple fizz and biting wiggling creatures off of skewer sticks. They were having the time of their lives, it seemed.
    Poet smiled, but there was something lurking in his consciousness, a worry