In dreams, trees spring from patches of lawn which branch from trees emerging from the ether. In dreams, planets revolve around patchworks of galaxial dust, a crystallized web-work of miasma, debris, and . In dreams, you are with me, alive and health and safe. In dreams, we can touch even the purest nothingness of the universe—the dust, the moonlight, the miasma—and nothing can touch us. In dreams, there are two of us again.
In dreams, there are no divisions thundering forward with tanks and artillery. There are no burning churches with smoke billowing from the windows, the broken stained-glass reflecting a multi-hued nightmare of fire and corpses. There are no blaring warning sirens, no M-36 tank destroyers, no shrieking bombs plummeting from heaven. There is no disease, no famine; there are no mutilated bodies, no front-yards-turned-into-graveyards.
Those all belong in nightmares. But in dreams, there is peace and a pulsing of the universe, there is a connection between us as you hold my hand and we watch the rotating planets dance across the black velvety sky. The web-work of miasma swirls around us with a bittersweet aroma that reminds me of lost golden autumns and a half-forgotten past of peace. It fills me with a whimsicality that this is only a dream, and that in such dreams I would like to be lost and loved forever.
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