Ebullient daylight argues with darkness at the periphery of my hungry eyes’ territory. All this bickering and no one brought me lemonade or pet penguins. Every time I feel a sour, sticky dream sliding through the folds of my classic brain, I take some pill that probably causes cancer and the manufacturer is just lying about it. In the clouds, a place wet with dreams and warm with an amniotic sort of safety that surpasses all knowledge.
Miniature Moon 