I dreamt of you last night.After some thirteen years. You've probably sat in on every other blue-moon-night but I have no remembrance because you wore your socks, just like you always did. I remember the two years that I barely dreamt my dreams. And I'd run to mum telling her of the nights I did- the first two years. This untamed anger as I sat and starred at stars and rain. I woke up today and walked in crooked lines through the snow and felt quirky. Fuzzy, just like my hidden memory of you until this morning.

the flight of a playground swing memorized backwards.
There's this feeling in my gut that something was happening to me. Happening to me, without me. This thing was having a life of its own.Breathing. Making my own breathe short and uneven.

And you. You probably dreamt in a little ink pot all along.And what that tune was, who knows, but there has to be little bubbles in that little inkpot.

There's something stuck behind my eyedlid.
And, you see, thing.That thing is making my head pound like those drums at a bi-lane wedding at home.