I wrote this in a momentary lapse of Neil Gaiman-ness.
How Dreams are Born
The Day Dreamer
Porcelin white fingers unfurl from a tightened fist. Magic seeps from the tips, from the unkempts nails, from the torn cuticles...a flower is born; A lilly, white, with a shade of lavender spiraling from it's iris, from it's center. The lilly balances, delicate and weightless over the life-line on the palm of a man, who is shrouded in darkness. The lilly is the only light that touches the place. The light flutters as the flower begins to rotate. the light dances and flickers, like the flame of a candle, it's beams laying gently over a face white enough to match the fingers that cage the flower. Abstract eyes watch the birth, silently, calculating the movement and grace of the dream lilly. The hand lifts up, and a skeletal finger coaxes the flower out into the open air. A breeze catches the lilly, and it drifts away, being lead to a sleeping person, deserving of a good dream.

The Night Terror
Black roots sprout from a wrist lined with bluish veins. The roots wretch violently, twisting and wrapping themselves around finger after finger, stretching and bending with preternatural speed. Lifelike and horrible, the roots bleed through the night air searching for someone to take hold of, for someone to scare..