(I used to cry at how beautiful they all were; the sounds and the words and the images and the way that they would twine reality with their fingers, weave it into something that sparkled in my mind like a ruby or an emerald or a sapphire jewel. And I'd crawl on the ground of my mind trying to get near it, trying to emulate it, each fabrication a chunk of rock in comparison. My tongue would quiver in every wrong direction, my words ill and deformed, my fingers shaking uncontrollably as I tried to grasp at the dark nothingness and change it into a robe, a crown, or a ring. Everything would crumble, and I'd be left with nothing but the whispers of everything around me that gleamed.
One day I made a wooden pot, and understood it all.)
Sometimes we wake up from our dreams and can't even remember them. It's like losing a life and not even knowing it, several times a night. If waking up were death, we'd all be content.
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