To write is to leave this world

The ocean is always moving, adjusting. rearranging. Never silent. The seahawks scream and the whales hold echoey conversations. The ocean goes on deeper then any scientist has ever imagined. Even in the deepest darkest corner, something lives.

My mind, like lazy honey, spills onto the pillows and sheets. I think of another day gone by, like I do every other night. In the last moments of near consciousness I rediscover last nights dreams. They come back in swift flashes of images, sound and smell. Then, when I fall asleep, they are forgotten forever.

I sleep in a front room that might actually have been a porch at one time. I sleep against the wall half buried in a blue comforter. I sleep now with a woman that is not from this country but from over the seas and the high castles of eastern Europe. Sometimes she is still lost for her homeland. In her dreams she runs across the hills chasing clouds and hangs her artwork on trees.

I am back at the ocean. In the Winter I come here to avoid the crowds. Pudding is best served cold.The sand is like snow between my toes as I watch the twinkling lights along the long coastline.

The place where we sleep: The wall in front of us is all windows. Every orange sunset and every yellow sunrise melts like ice cream. Even when our eyes are closed in sleep.

In this dream my father was a medieval giant living in the endless lush forest. My mother is a cow grazing in a green fields that is in front of the forest. The ten children are baby cubs playing around the cow. Every once in a while the ground and trees rumble and sway and we can see our father peeking at us from over the tops of the trees.

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