Sam had that weird series of dreams again. He did not fly or swim in great rivers, he did not discover hidden rooms in places he once lived, he did not open doors to rooms full of long dead relatives silently watching television ,eating pie. Those dreams were the regular passengers of most nights. He dreamed he checked his email, he hung out on Facebook, he lurked Twitter and its snow of things and bots, he did his taxes, he checked the weather in cities he would never visit. The weird thing is it really felt real this time, mundane and in real time, that little fireworks flourish of tasks completed too.
March 12, 2016
“When mother spoke out loud, the first word was blue.
Blue was the color of a confession given under the sign of the fish.
Swimming wildly under golden glints of sunlight, the fish only knew to embrace the sorrows.
Sorrow is mother is the utterance of a embrace that is the color blue.”
– The Sky Isn’t Blue