If dreaming’s (as they say) a respite, a simple distraction of the mind, why is it, if abruptly you wake from one, you feel you’ve been robbed? Why’s rising too soon so sad? Time takes from us an unthinkable gift, one so intimate it’s only translatable in an unconsciousness the night gilds with dreams that may well be cut-off reflections of the treasures of the darkness, from a timeless, nameless orb that the day distorts in its mirrors. Who will you be tonight in the dark dream, from the other side of its wall?
Posted on: Wed, 02 Jul 2014 15:17:23 +0000
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