Rêves

of remote lands and eternal stories

Another pale hour has me rising in a film of delirium. What is it in dreams that are so wondrously,

 captivatingly, real? They carry such intensity, such viscosity; there is a novel to articulate of nights spent exploring ethereal realms and lucid illusions. Upon dawn, I'm gazing malcontentedly around, fingers in knots, the flickering embers of my latest adventures still brilliant in my mind. I'm lost, ruminating, if only, if only.