"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep". (Will Shakespeare, the tempest)

We are such stuff as dreams are made on: we are the stuff dreams are made on, and maybe -just maybe-, we are nothing but someone else's dream. Someone else which we call God -because he created us, and we can perceive being nothing but a Creation- but which can just be our closest friend; our neighbour, the woman which buys groceries in the same supermarket than us... and we are nothing but parts of a dream which will soon end.

Where do dreamt creatures go when the dreamer wakes up?

That, we'll soon know