All of my daydreams are built on the bones of others’ stories.My own fictions are so hazy . . . They are fragile and vague, wrought with significance of no particular significance. As ideas, they are large and strangely specific, yet so general that it is impossible to render them down to a manageable size. They glint like distant mirages- their edges undefined, but their luster unmistakable. At a distance, they fill the body with longing, and beat the soul with depth; however, when one approaches, the façade fades. The details are all missing.  It’s simply an edifice of thoughts twining idly through the ether, rising and sinking through awareness, held together with only the flimsiest of threads.


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