Moonshine. I think that’s a song by King Crimson. Or was that Moonchild. I know I have that album – it’s one of those I borrowed from my Dad ages ago and never gave back – but I’m not sure it’s what I’m thinking of. I think I’m thinking of Doves. That narrows it down to one album – mainly because I only have one Doves album – but I can’t place the song. They were never my favourite band. It’s going to really bug me now, until the morning when you wake up and tell me instantly what I’m thinking of.

That’s really unsatisfying sometimes. You know, just once, I’d like to get a song stuck in my head that you can’t place either.

It’ll probably end up being Spice Girls though.

You always look so beautiful when you sleep. At peace with the universe. Sure, there’s the occasional twitch of your upper lip, as if you’re trying to dislodge a fly, but really, it’s the only time you’re ever still.

It’s a beautiful night. Full moon, no clouds, no wind. Everyone seems to be sleeping peacefully. Except me. I sit at the window, staring up at the moon, watching it stare at me. It’s bright enough to throw shadows from the trees on the lawn below. If you saw it you’d want to run out naked and dance in the milky pearlescence – I do too. But I won’t, because without you, it wouldn’t be the same, and I don’t want to disturb you.

Or the night.

It’s so like, yet unlike the night we went meteor watching. That night was still too, but there was no moon. Out of the city, on a deserted road with no streetlamps to spoil our view. You dragged me there, and I’ll give you one thing – it was spectacular. Not for the meteors – I never saw a single one – but to see the sky so dark, but with so many pinpricks of light, stardust in the obsidian blanket of the night. I spent my whole life in the city, and that night provoked a sense of wonder that never left. The Milky Way – I could see it. The far-off glimmers of a billion fiery orbs, and the possibility that somewhere up there, there was another Danny – another Tom – sitting by the roadside, staring up at their sky and wondering if somewhere out there there was another Danny and another Tom, sitting by the roadside, staring at the sky and wondering… I’d like to think there are. That there are other Toms and other Dannys as happy as us. Other Dougies, other Harrys, other Fletches… maybe there’s even another Tom, another Danny, another Dougie and another Harry that got together to form another McFly.

The universe is infinite – in all that space, I’d hate to think that we were the only ones.

I read a book once, about the universe and the theories about it. One in particular stuck in my mind – that the universe is a dream of someone, somewhere, and that if that person ever wakes up, the universe will end. The Sleeper, the book called that person. It stuck with me because you were sleeping beside me at the time, and I wondered if inside your head was another universe going through its life, with its own inhabitants dreaming their own universes… like Russian dolls. I thought how lucky those people would be, to have their universe inside your head. I reckon I’d like it in there – peaceful. Like the night. But then… maybe our universe is inside your head, because this one seems pretty good to me.

Mostly because it’s got you.

You’re special. I know I tell you that, and I know that when you wake up, I’ll tell you again. I say it because it’s true. You claimed never to understand what I saw in you, and that makes you even more special. Because you know what I see in you? Everything. An infinity of possibility. You, Danny Jones, are a universe within and without you. You are the sun, moon, stars and heavens… all in one warm body sleeping in my bed.

The Sleeper awakens.