I had a dream that I woke up in the city full of madmen. There were soap bubbles everywhere, and a tall shabby bloke I had met in Paris spoke to me about poetry. He said that real poetry is the one that is not written yet, that exists only as a fleeting thought somewhere in the emptiness of your skull. We were drinking coffee in a small coffee-shop from green curved glasses made of ceramics, and the world was warped and shiny and the sky was pink and blue.
In short, I want to travel the realm of my dreams more. The real world is here, and the dreams are way too fickle.
Current Mood: |
 chipper |
Current Music: |
Muse. Showbiz |
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dune_master's journal
artistic
contemplative