Oh but what of dreaming?
Oh great spectacle of human evolution, what hath been wrought of thy flesh? Rending, ripping, shredding your dreams on baby teeth much akin to umbilical cords in times before. I can see now where I've gone wrong and yet I choose to be wrong in ways that inspire strange and tortured souls. There is a sort of honeysuckle sweetness to poetry that gives balm to the sting and decay of times before but let us not forget the aftering. When the words seep out on the floorboards and slide into your gaping maw while sleeping. So who's to say what is and is not beautiful? Do we create out of nothingness or have our dreams always existed in its shifts and recalibrations. Only you can say for you. Meanwhile I will dream in monochromatic hues of senselessness and sensibilities ignored.
