Twisting the shapes of morning dreams into the shapes of daytime emotions, regret and recourse, reality and renegade rhetoric–set loose on an unsuspecting landscape of innocent emotional vegetation, the omnivorous beast devours the hapless rooted instincts and flitting insect moods without distinction. Its mouth is a crane whose metal jaws indiscriminately hang open like the sifting teeth of a giant whale, sucking in all in its path. The beast is wakefulness, and upon its arrival the world is set drab again, and all the wonders of imagination cower so as not to become targets, so as not to become prey.

We wake and the slates of our minds begin tallying tasks and monotonous chores, the artistry of dreams swept away as so much chalk powder. Chalk powder that accumulates in the corners of our minds until an avalanche of it will bury us in its beauty, and we go mad.

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