During the last days of his life, a famous writer Edgar Allan Poe, is dreaming the same dream the night after night. This dream, full of colours and different views, looks more happier than Poe's dark stories and poems. Yet it is full of silently screaming pain.
Poe is frustrated. That strange dream drains his inspiration away and fill his texts with sunflowers and vivid colors. This is not his dream, not from his imagination.
And is he alone in that dream...?