It's difficult to find explanations for all that's going on here. I've been here for apparent- [ He flicks the tip of his cigarette toward the window, letting whatever small amount of ash collected fall away. ] Seven months, is it, and I've gotten no closer.

I'd hoped it was a natural dream of sorts, at first. [ Though that'd quickly been struck out of the question. Not with Arthur as he is. ]

When I think I have an explanation, however farfetched, it inevitably resolves into nothing more than circumstance.

You thought this a dream of your own making? [ Interested, Yusuf recalls Eames' particular reputation. Not just a forger but The Forger. Though he's sure the unspoken invitation has been there, to enter the other's mind when he's supine on a cot with the heat of Mombasa pressing spots of sweat onto his patterned shirts, he's never taken the invitation. Yusuf is not a dreamer, and he has always known his limits. ]

The natural sort, without all the mechanics, yes. I've never quite been a naturally lucid dreamer, you know, so the lack of control here, the lack of- well, anything, and my last memory being of my hotel room, it was a first thought.

[ He takes another long drag, shuffling around on the bed a bit to prop his back against the window sill where the bed is tucked against, legs draping across Yusuf's sheeted ones. ] What else was I to think, a place like this?