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Too bad.

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Too bad, the human body requires food of palpable forms.
Or else I could live
In my mind through means of dream sleeping.

It’s always the good kind of dream
That you wake up in the middle of,
The kind where you are conscious
That the dream has a significant message to play.

Then a spasm of the leg
Or the heavy weight and tingly feeling
In the arm, from it sleeping too.
Or the sound of an alarm
Or the birds chirping
Repetitive tunes that fly its way into your ears
Whatever it is, there is always something
Always something, somehow preventing the epiphany
That was nearly exposed.

And you’re left with
An empty hope
That it will reoccur
And blocking the thought:
Nothing that beautiful is fetched by the mind
More than once on the same occasion.

But in order to keep your hopes and desires
Store them at room temperature
And they’ll be just fine.





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