Dreaming of a Dreamer

I was sitting in a room, my legs were stretched out across the floor, and my back was against the wall. It was particularly dry and there was a faint smell of fresh laundry lingering about, either from the closet or from the man behind me. That man behind me was a stranger, slim, and old. As he dozed off in a chair by a fan in the corner, his newspaper blew around on the floor. Apart from that soft hum, it was quiet. 

After some time it was time for his medication, the man awoke and began to mumble. “Stop it! Let me be...” He dozed back off. 

Those words stuck with me. 

“I wonder who he thinks I am…” I thought to myself. 

I glanced over at him and starred for quite some time. His chin was scruffy and long, and his wrinkled skin stretched around his slender face like a tightly fitted item of clothing. His striped shirt was buttoned up to his Adam’s apple, which by now protruded from his skin, moving up and down as he breathed. His skin was white, though gray in his hands, and his eyes were deep and sunken, almost transparent. I wondered what he was dreaming, if dreaming at all…