There was something nagging at John Smith, like an itch at the back of his mind; something he needed to remember, but what? He shrugged and pushed the nagging feeling out of his head; he had things to do.
Besides, it was probably just the lingering effects of one of his dreams. He’d been having a lot of those recently, strange and fantastical imaginings. He hadn’t told anyone about them, not yet. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he might be going a bit strange.
He wrote them down though, every morning, keeping a record; a journal of impossible things.