Hiding in your dreams, buried in the avalanche of collapsed stress rose up your half-self without its other part, which had always been like amber wrapped around an ant. Time slowed down and said hello and took away your clothes. Hideout and seek, they make memories out of daylight
The under-lit world was a place to see things clearly: Asleep in your undisturbed room emotions just rise to the surface. Fastened and bound into the syntax of your own sleep; little pieces of there and here and nowhere came gliding through. Your personality always felt sandwiched in, pressed between the walls of memory closing in around the present tense. Now under your dreams you at least feel free. Is your bed an incubator of madness? Old people and a conversation with a Bus Driver where you actually felt connected. Words pour through your mind as if they weren’t pushed. As if you were growing time between your ears like an antiquated hobby, it followed smoking. Shame had no place so things moved smoothly: A tidy honesty, not the stupid drunk explosions to be exposed elsewhere 48 hours later. Violins and Dreams, sadness curdled up to be a potion that only your head could up with and swallow; this is the speedway to ecstasy
I leave no fingerprints here. They wont find me. I’m on the bedrock, the backbone, the memory gland or whatever the real thing is called. At the bottom of my consciousness I can finally breathe, the oxygen of my uninterrupted head, but enough fishing, it's time to wake up
