I have a habit of dreaming. Languishing through out the night with pillow soft pictures of the perfect life. Grinning with delight as I pick words off shelves like cereal boxes freshly stacked for Monday morning and packed to perfection by a friendly employee in a happy surburban town my feet have never stepped in. 

Dreams that appear on screen in sloth time without the volume of real life emergencies. Like a cat on a summer day life is marked by hours of peaceful bliss. 

This is a fantasy, like the mate your spouse thinks is better suited to please him. Or the person you sometimes follow out the supermarket with your desire spilling all over your clothes and dribbling out of your mouth just because he said hello. 

Better that those blissful days stay within the barriers of sleep for we are not accustomed to such joy and would find the amount of happiness to be unbearable and no different from the life we live today. 


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