The old man descended from the ladder and began to walk off, paintbrush still in hand and dripping paint onto his clothes and the floor below him. But I wasn't quite ready to go. I hurried to catch up with him and grabbed his arm to slow him down. 

"But who are you?" I asked. The man paused. 

"I am the Dream Painter," he said, bowing politely. "I am the one responsible for all of your dreams." 

The pitter-patter kept me up all night.

It was a disgusting, excruciating sound. I plugged my ears, stuffed a pillow over my head, and prayed it would go away. I squirmed when I felt a tickle on my arm, terrified it was not a breath of wind, but two antennae brushing against my hair. I lay awake all night in frozen fear. 

My house was infested with tiny creatures.

An exploration of sound in all its shame and glory