Tonight the sky is clear. Imagine it above you — dark, enormous, scattered with light so old it barely remembers where it came from. Keats and Shelley guide you there. Two poets who spent their lives reaching for something so beautiful it almost hurts. Close your eyes if they aren't already. And look up.

Tonight, somewhere beneath you, there is water. There is something in the rhythm of the sea the body already understands. The breath in. The breath out. The long pull and release. Matthew Arnold and Alfred Lord Tennyson. Let the words wash over you — without needing to catch them. Free to listen. Always.

Tonight we step outside. Into open air and long light — the particular silence that exists only where the human world hasn't quite arrived. Walt Whitman and William Wordsworth guide you there. Voices from another century, speaking of things that haven't changed. Allow yourself to feel held.

Tonight we go inward. Not into the great distances of the universe — but into the small, interior world. The one that exists only when the outer one falls quiet. The Dreamcatcher's first night. Original poetry, written in the quiet hours for exactly this moment. Free to listen. Always.

Before we begin. My name is The Dreamcatcher. This is Soporific — a sleep companion for the restless mind. We breathe together once. Then I read you eight lines of Yeats. Enough to show you what we do here. Ten episodes are waiting. Thirty minutes each. A breathing routine, then poetry read aloud in the quiet hours. Free to listen. Always.