The pillow clouds punch up the horizon of my sweet fatigue after a long journey across the municipalities of should & should not. I man the tiller of my dream-craft to cross the Eidetic Sea to the land called Hypnogogia. The Hypnogogians till the two fold gardens with ceaseless mirth & befuddling invention. It is on those shores I see the creatures that inform the very spine of why of how & when. Three horses gallop full bore. Hell bent on leather. Across a landscape bereft of colour.
Dear Dr. Freud?
Pray tell what does it all mean? I don’t see a singly sexual innuendo here. Please respond by return post.
R
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