Dream. Oh yea. Hmm. Well. Fuck. If I was a graphics artist, I could show you a lot better than I can describe with paltry monochromatic words.
Colors. Swirling colors. Mostly reds and oranges. Like if you saw life from the perspective of a paintbrush in use. Sweeps. Arcs. Spiraling in. Spiraling out.
Sound. Wind in a mountain pass. Tornadoes in the distance. A deep bass pulsing as the foundation for all the other sounds to build and play off of.
I was in this, I was a part of this, I was a product of this. But I was NOT causing this.
And I heard the vibrations of the spaces in between the atoms. The loudness of silence. I saw the bright purity of the depths of space.
And when I woke up, I could bring only these broken and deficient words with me.
I love words.
Words are useless this time.
Excuse me while I mope.