This might be a metaphor for something...

In my dream we were running through the library of Babel. There was a hidden text you said I needed to see. We looped through mazes of secret passages and Escheresque stairways to find it. It was dusty and crumbling with age. I was afraid to touch it. I couldn’t read it. It was in a language that I couldn’t understand. You tried to explain it to me, tried to help me see. You needed my understanding, my expertise with semiotics. But it wasn’t working. I needed to see it with your eyes. I could only read it through your eyes. My interpretation was nothing without your sense.

"Do not die out, fire. Enter my dreams, love.
Be young forever, seasons of the earth."
~ Czeslaw Milosz