When I talk to people in my dreams,
they only tell me things I already tell
myself. Mundane observations, or
things that hurt. Things that have
risen up from the dark. And
dream me just looks back
to the dream people,
and says, I know.
No more. Just,
I know.
I am going to write a story of some variety, long or short, fictitious or factual, every single day for a year. Wish me luck.
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