rushed strokes.

This hallucination, the nightly ride into the psyche lingers in a cloud behind my heavy eyes.  Like the current of an undertow, it pulls me back into the dark blankness of possibility.  This mental canvas, no less real than all we perceive in waking life, unfortunately washes away each morning as the turpentine of awareness pours across the mind.  The wish to keep on dreaming, perhaps that's why I write.  Unbound by the conventions and rules imposed by the group on what is and is not, I am free to think and feel whatever comes to mind.