dreams are quaint, and mixing with reality, entering the temples through sleep deprived deep cuts in the thumbs and lungs, and everything is too much, like a steady drip drip drip through the needles in the shrines and gods right to the edge of the eyes, where ink splatters into a red mess. all the news of the world bundle up into huge waves, and the sand is made of faces, smiling, though some are not, and my mind sinks a little. dreams are quaint, but also huge, there's fresh air and the smoke of the clouds below, there's little pots of flowers and northern winter, and majestic, moving mountains rolling around the earth to hunt -