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Found in my old fiction journal

I keep having dreams. Discontinuous and fragmented. Nothing contingent to hinge a meaning on. I approach my bed each night with a languid hesitation. I stare at the ceiling and long for it to collapse and crush my evasive conclusions about the day. There is an unmistakable but unrealized dissonance hiding in the vaulted shadows of this winter.

One Comment

  1. Rob wrote:

    Well written….really like it!

    Thursday, November 15, 2007 at 7:45 am | Permalink

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