So what did Act III mean?

In the dream world, she would open up the desk drawer to rows and rows of plane tickets, lined up neatly. None of them have dates on them, she can use them as she pleases. None of them are window seats, she sits two rows from the exit. She'll never sit next to a baby, a person intent on conversation while her eyes are heavy with sleep or someone with repugnant body odour. 1 in 6 tickets will reward her with an upgrade to business class, and there's no disclaimer either.

In the dream world, she would have a typewriter that would send inspiration flying through her fingertips, not like the clunky whirring of a computer where the letter 'e' sticks longer than it should, turning 'the' into 'thee' and sending her brow plummeting to the middle of her face with discern. She would never have to think about the number of syllables per line, or how overly extravagantly flowery her metaphors were. Sometimes she would write with a sharpened lead pencil on a wooden desk that had been scrubbed back and painted.

In the dream world, there is money for fresh flowers, she never has to run for the bus, her room is filled with books that have been chosen with care for her by someone else, she retains information like a thirsty sponge, her conjugations are perfect and her black clothes never fade out to grey.