We dream deeply, walking pebble beaches. Stones of bluish grey, striped honey beige, red tenement sandstone, granite sparkle, twist and turn beneath our feet. Owls swoop from the night, as we walk across soft mossed hills to a dawn red-hued sky. We dream of kisses, cheek caresses, gentle and tingling, then hard and full of want. Boats roll on tumbling waves, sailing to anywhere, as we look for others to haul onboard. We lick white foaming beer from lips, arms resting on sticky wooden bar tops, our ears full of talk, our eyes full of each other. We dream. We wake. No dreams can come true here. There can be no miracles. Cradled screens fulfill our ersatz lives. The hours busy us, the day zooms with calls, skypering with chat. How long till our stones, our hills, the owls, the sailing boats become mythical? Ah kent them once. Just stories. The virus infects our dreams, reduces them. If it's not through a screen, how is it real?