Saturday, June 24, 2006

All that is not prose is...

You awake from your wasted sleep in a strange bed and pull the strings of an escaping dream. It’s a waylaid cloud and wayward kite. A kitten one moment. A black dog the next. You shut your eyes against the encroaching dawn that drapes the walls of your cocoon and you are everything you see and everything you fail to see.


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