I started to write this piece as a simple review of Neil Gaiman’s The Sandman, now streaming on Netflix; like the show itself, and the comic series at its origin, it turned into something far bigger, a historical narrative including random characters, with meanings and truths revealed as if from nowhere.

Like dreams, this review has become something more, an essay about writing itself, about narrative, about the consumption of art for both good and evil, and about its very effect on our lives.

Or maybe just mine.