Dreams, 1101

Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you.— Marsha Norman

  1. An escalator lies next to an artificial waterfall in a mall, and when I reach the end, I grip the railings so I won’t slide off a steep wall.
  2. When I die, I will be in my deathbed, everyone I know dearly holding their axes, that heavy hurling, and that pain that constantly slashes my throat.
  3. I believe in holding the moon’s surface, its seas and craters, from the window next to me.
  4. Like the song, it goes: “Call my Aunt Marie, know that I will never marry.”
  5. This city within my window: this city within the constellations, this city, this city.
  6. Were you a mermaid once upon a time? Were you singing, or killing fishermen?
  7. There seems to be a problem with compiling. Then, the computer melts. My fingers are soaking in materials.
  8. In Metropolis, I become its camera, shooting everything I see, or maybe that silent film Andy Warhol directed, his head tilted backward, his expression saying a lot in black and white.
  9. There’s this black painting, but there’s this face in that black painting, some portrait the artist of “Starry Night” drew. It was haunting. I think it’s me.
  10. I can sing, I don’t get it. I can sing and everyone was very nice, and they clapped their hands. I think I won a Grammy.

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