Scrolling in the dark, you allow foreign whim to orchestrate your last conscious thoughts. As your world dies, theirs begins: dream meat.
In the garden of nocturnal perfumes, you find Clair Obscur. A small white flower emits its mist. A sign nearby tells you do not approach the mist or else you will get wet. But you enjoy it from a distance while remarking how light it is for such a nocturnal fragrance. Its angelic radiance cloaks you in anonymity: no one has to know your name here and it doesn’t even matter because no one follows you back anyway. You are a sponge. Feel free.
But perhaps seeking foreign content is a way to mask dealing with the everyday. There is a reason most dreams are nightmares. Commend your coping mechanism. Lead your followers in a human chain through the dark.