As I sit, I think, and as I think, I dream. Not a dream of the night, with surreal inventions of my own mind, swirling in never ending activities, creating images in my head that last until I wake up. These are the dreams where I suddenly become still, breathing becomes easy and I pass my glazed eyes over the objects I see.

All activity ceases, and I make strange intangable connections between things, lines in between tiles create pictures for me to ponder over, the shape of the covers on an unmade bed, "How did they get to be that shape?". All of these connections, images, thoughts run through my head at breakneck speed, yet time is slow, meandering between the real world and my perceptions.

Then, the dream is over, my hand continues to write, I continue to read, life goes on.