Another Wakeful Dream
I’ve been here before…
This same dust filled room.
I have sat there in the same worn, mildewed, moth eaten chair, and watched the silent currents blow the cobwebs into movement.
I have watched the micro world’s blown about as dust in the light of each passing day.
There every page of life is written, collected, and bound. The work of a legion of unseen hands.
Every letter, every mark upon the page, created by a host of beings.
Beings that etch their knowledge simultaneously into the condensed lines of unreadable script.
Linking infinite worlds and paths.
Information and energy never disappoint
Recorded beyond the boundaries of forever
Relics of bygone years
Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, all things are vanity
Death in a deathless place
Life in a place of despair
There grows the knowledge
Torn from the roots of trees
Grown fruitless in the withering breeze
And when you look for what it is you find
It’s then you loose your place
In the endless fantastic we craft
False Promises Nouveau 