It seems the time I spend away in dreams takes place during the tossing of a coin. Heads I wake up with my head on straight, tails I wake up with mine between my legs.
The tax of this sleepscape makes it hard to close your eyes at night, not knowing if the hand you wished in, or the hand you shit in is going to fill up first.
If the rays of our sun are polishing everything into perfection, it’s hard not to enjoy the conscious hours, even when you’re lost. But when the clouds leak rain across the skyline, making flowers and smiles sag so low, I open my eyes in the morning and stare at the ceiling, trying to retrace the steps I took that put me here - So I can follow them backwards to that part in the clouds where the sunlight was shining through.
The architecture of our world is frail, and though sometimes its weight weighs heavy on my back, I know I’ll never need to be dug out of the rubble from its collapse.