Evening in the city, in the graphite-lullaby, each vivid hue collects their boarding pass for the land of dreams.
I dreamed that the pistol soaked into my arm, that the metal ran up to my heart and then from my opening mouth fell words not as sound but text; it was every good thing my mama ever taught me, falling out to the cold icy floor.
I need only the light of day, the comfort of home, of loving arms and the nourishment this form of matter needs, and I will spin my dreams into a gold that is as intangible as wishes, yet as real as the rocks and soil of Earth. For my dreams are my path given by divine hand and dancing into a future that calls my wandering soles.
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