I’ve been having dreams that don’t feel like dreams. I’m waking up, I’m walking out of space into memories I no longer remember, wandering into something I didn’t want to. But it’s not the scenes, strange as the leaves telling fortunes in the bottom of your tea. It’s the dread trap crisis coming from the bottom of my half sleep heart. These dreams of isolation, dreams of going back. These dreams of fucking up, dreams of living in restraint and everything I lack. Dreams of walls so tall that time can’t even crack. And I wake up scared each time from travelling despite my senses fade from black. Out of breath on the bedside, out of time, left to sync. Present to the light thrown from the top of the curtains to the seven circles on the wall, and the way the mirrors reflect them back and forth in three realities.