Lately,
I have reflected on dreams and in doing so my life has obtained a dream-like quality. Haze surronds my interactions, smoke fills my lungs and my life. It is as if dreaming were more of a reality to me than waking. And in dreaming I find more truths that my conscious self can ever find. If there exist any truth... or truths. But in dreams there lies no doubt, no selfishness, no vanity. All things which plague me and contradict my intentions. To be honest, to be fruitfull, to be sexual. All these things escape the hand that grasps reality and flow into the mouth of fantasy.
Yet, I cannot live in any other world. Nor do i wish too. If only the escape of sleep was not so perfect, so serene, so real.

Can you deny me the candidness of the place in which all eyes are closed and all senses shut down?