You put away your dreams, like the Christmas pine composted to meet some new local government recycling target; no one reads you now.
Time for regret, time for change, or to regret the changes you never made, or changes made around you, close enough to touch, to feel the cold breath of them against your face.
The sound of distant bells penetrate even these thick walls.
The world rotates, a little on its side, knocked off its true path eons back - some passing piece of moon, some wayward son come home unexpectedly. And dreams themselves adjusting to the odd angles of orbit. Dreams and planets rattling round, little stones, rattling round. Who can know the black dream from black stones?
Imagine speaking, imagine each leaf of the tree at the window embossed with your name, little veins of letters scrawled point to petiole. Imagine a cold wind and the leaves falling.
You are tubes and orifices, pressurised, suspended on a frame, all else is dreamy ego lust slavering gold grabbing killer flick-knife work.
Write your name a hundred times. By the end of the exercise, you won't recognise yourself, but perversely you will convince yourself new beginnings are still possible.
Here is a dream, a place for dreams, a dream that wandered off and lost itself down a country road.
When you looked into her eyes nobody had to explain to you what dreams coming true might mean.
The sun is coming up. It's fiery and far away, but its radiation lights up your puny pressures, goes right through you, burning up dreams and skin and the way home.
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