And this is the life of a Dreamer, the haunting existence of one who ponders, who wonders what sentence could have come before that opening And? Pretending to find the delicate balance between dreams and reality (until epiphany strikes as a Roman god with bright flashes and the death of all things tangible, revealing that, in truth, the Dreamer is simply dreaming of this balance.) The unclassifiable dwells here, the curious, the monstrosities, the never forgotten smells. Yet all taste of dead leaves in the mouth of one who lacks nothing. But the deprived, ah yes. Those wondrous few who know the depths of drear as well as a blind man knows the steps to the rest room. It is within these souls that a Dreamer can be conceived. Within these walls of disillusionment can the forces of Pain and Hope cease to be separate, and this bond-this unification-in some rare circumstances creates the kind of mutant that causes the World to shudder. The World will ignore and reject this newly birthed Dreamer, because these are the few who cannot escape the clutches of other dimensions. Dreams are ever at their side like a bit of dead skin to a finger nail. It agitates and infuriates, yet induces a strange dose of intrigue. And try as one may, this enthralling nuisance is not to be rid of until it so pleases, until it is finished with its parasitic engagements. A Dreamer cannot squirm his or her way out of a dream; its appendages have suctions that are un-de-suction-able. This dream will haunt; be it attainable or unfathomable, its tow will not relent. Always that detestable, refreshing, calming, beguiling, precious hope will step in and kidnap the entirety of the Dreamer until it has produced one of the options of final destiny:


the death of Dreams or the death of Reality.