I take my dreams and hurl them at the page.
Sometimes they stick.
Sometimes they fall.
Sometimes they shatter into pieces and start stories of their own.
But mostly– mostly they just hang there, suspended in the air, and never reach the page at all.
They fade, so slowly, fade to dust and light and half-remembered tunes.
And I watch them die, and cannot bear to watch them die, and horde the dreams away from ungentle time.
Horde them, until I cannot stand the noise.
I take my dreams and hurl them at the page.

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