Awake at last, troubled by dreams of concrete and pedals scrapping the ground in sparkling collision, you stir only to be greeted by the faces of those you forgot. They do not say hello and neither do you. Nor should we in circumstances where the conscious reign too high above the sleeping. The realization that your nightmares propose illumination yet oppose understanding comes whistling in, called from a distance, and all that is shown under lights, as if exposed in the sun of day, is an image that is all too present but cannot be understood. It is not even the piercing lips of those that stare at you making that noise we heard over and over again, until repeated, that make no more sense that the sound it projects.
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