At first, it was a coping mechanism. I was lost; I wanted a way back to the way things used to be, a way to be somewhere other than where I was. I slept so I could dream.
The means become the end, though. Isn’t that always the way? Just like any drug. Now, I don’t sleep to dream; I sleep to sleep.
It passes the time.
It was Hamlet, wasn’t it, who asked what dreams may come in the sleep of death?
I don’t dream anymore.
I hope there aren’t any dreams in death. I’m looking forward to it.
That Pot Or Vase I Think
1 day ago