Like the air, dreams are thick. "Where do they come from?"
Slowly moving through stories. Stories electrify my body and paralyze me, strung together much like an addict strings up a row of sober days and calls it enough. These are my sober days. I feel the buzz in my head grow louder, the words are mine, dreams mine, but the feelings tingle in my extremities. It's time travel from present to distant dissociation. I feel a body--I am in it, but I am not in it. I don't float, but a body floats–suspended between dreams and flames of candles.
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