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     Everyone has, at one time or another, heard about the legendary Sandman. At an early age I had my own Sandman. One of the earliest recollections I have of my childhood was a conversation with my mother. I asked her, if she had ever seen the Mymphs. She thought I meant nymphs, which I didn't, and said no. I was rather disappointed, because I wanted to share my wonderful Mymphs with others. I have never actually attempted to describe them to anyone before. I really don't think I can do that even now that I am older; however, I shall try.
     At a very early age I was falling into the habit of insomnia. I couldn't go to sleep even if I tried my darnedest! I would lie, and toss, and turn, and think of the oddest things. It would simply be impossible to fall asleep. What would I do? I would conjure up my Mymphs. By shutting my eyes---not hard, just enough to keep out the light---and concentrating, a strange darkness would fall over my mind's eye, and weird patterns would be formed. A cloud of grayish vapor would rise and center in my brain; then it would turn to a deep, intense, blue. I'm positive that no crayon or paint could quite equal its vividness. A latticework of crisscrossing lines of fiery red would then be centered on the blue background, and in the middle of each red-orange square there would appear minute silver sparks---star-like in their size and brilliance. These would fade, and then myriads of motes, ranging from yellow to orange, would fly helter-skelter around like a colored snowstorm. This would fade in turn and would be replaced by the standard sleep-inducer: particles of deep, deep flashing yellow would appear on a greenish-black background, upon which were placed an infinitesimal grain of purest black. The dots would rush back and forth in a bewildering manner, too rapidly for the mind to follow. At this point in the vision I could open my eyes in the darkness of my bedroom and see the Mymphs transposed on the bedspread, the curtains, the door, or anywhere I happened to look---except in the bright light. The final dotting would last for some time, two or three seconds, while the preliminary flashings would change faster that I could ever follow. Immediately after this display of mental fireworks, sometimes even during it, I would fall into a deep slumber, not to awaken until the alarm.
     How I thought of the name Mymphs for them, I'll never know. As a matter of fact, when I first heard the word "nymph" mentioned, I was instantly reminded of my vision. The spelling in itself is not exactly as I have put it down. In my mind I know the sound that it has, and that is enough. It is somewhat more like "mympTs" or mymNTptHs" than MympHs, but it is more easily recognized when I spell it the latter way.
     Lately I have accustomed myself to the hypnotic effect of the whirling, flashing bits of color. I do not immediately fall asleep once seeing the illusion. I have finished the sequence of seeing them on many nights. The main display dies away slowly and is replaced by a fog-like gray that seems to be moving in much the same way as the rest of it, only more slowly and sluggishly. A few times I have even conjured the Mymphs up a second time. I have not yet needed a third time but, as the "kick" in a drug looses its "punch" through repeated use, I can see that in the near future I may have need of a third or even fourth time. I can imagine that with complete maturity I may lose my strange powers of self-hypnosis altogether, and I will never have the urge to write about it again. So, I write and finish with it now, while it is still fresh in my memory.
     Another remark often made about dreams is that the same dream is never repeated. This is not true of either my "Bridge" or my "Fun House" dreams.
     The Bridge is always approached on a steep hill, which the auto in which I am riding has a hard time climbing. Suddenly an Erector-Set fantasy looms above us, looking vaguely like a garage grease rack, with two narrow tracks for the wheels and a dizzying, gaping expanse of nothingness between the tracks---it?s too far to risk crossing, but too narrow by inches for the car to go between. Stuck in this dilemma, the driver can only back down the increasingly steep hill. The road mysteriously gets narrower and narrower, until, as it careens around a curve, the road completely converges to a point at a stunted, leafless tree. The car balances precariously for an instant at the brink of the precipice, and then the noiseless, frightening "dream-fall" shocks me into wakefulness.
     Even more common than the "Bridge" fantasy is the terrifying "Fun House." I have always been frightened of funhouses, and I wonder which came first, my fear of them, or the dream of them. I enter into unreality by wandering in an inky blackness. As a great fear overcomes me, I go off on a side passage to the right; a blaze of colored whirls seems to transport me to another dimension, and I am standing before a door, vaguely translucent, surrounded by a smoky gray glow. I push open the door and find myself surrounded by semi-transparent, incredibly thin and ghostlike beings. They soundlessly mill around me in the grayish haze, ending by conducting me to a gray rocking chair, in which I am seated. Surrounded by a completely gray room I am instantly aware of a fishbowl beside me, in which is swimming the most exotically colored fish imaginable. I wake in a great fear, the startling fish-image still floating in my mind's eye. I smile when psychologists say that color in dreams is impossible. One day I will show them my fish.