In his dreams he stood in a field of freshly cut wheat as the pale sky stared down at him and blinked. It's eye was grey as snow piled by the side of a highway and as it followed his every move with all the rapture of a zealot, he didn't feel afraid.
He felt safe.
Sometimes he managed to walk as far as the seaside before he woke up, saltspray fresh on his skin and mud on his feet. Sometimes he headed for the farmstead and sat with the livestock, waking with hay in his hair and dust on his hands.
Most times he woke to the faintest outline of the eye on his ceiling as it receded back to wherever it came from.
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