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  • i dream i'm out picking mushrooms with some friends, but alas, all we find is the dry, whitened skull of an ox. and out comes a tiny flying insect. we were all taken aback, unsettled, as it were. but it then paused above this girl's head and in a flash flew inside her ear. of course she changed. we had to lay her down in my parent's bedroom, but every night she disappeared, only to reappear the next morning with mud all over her feet. where did she go, what did she do?

    and then i woke up.

    i believe this dream happened in 1995. seven years later i began my new novel. ten years and hundreds of pages after that, i'm still nowhere near finishing it. but the dream is still there, hiding below the surface, itching to get out. i have meant to dream it again, but no such luck so far. i have dreamed many other stories, though. i have seen cities that do not exist in any known map, i have talked to trees and courted disaster like a spurned lover might. i have sown the bitter fruit of frustrations and the unconsolable silence of each and every morning. i have dragged down from the clouds the cold, severe drops of unending rain, the hard, painful pellets of hail, and i have made mad love to the emptiness of that pre-dawn instant when all the night creatures shut up and wait for the sun to rise ever so slightly over the ever retreating horizon.

    all because i just want to fill that hole you left behind, all because i'd rather stay up all night than fall asleep and then wake up to rediscover you are no longer there, on your side of the bed, all because there must, there has to be something more than this lonesome longing eating me away from the inside.

    all of it because i just simply want to forget and keep telling myself something better is waiting for me at the turn of a page, my page.
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