September 7, 2010
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In a dream I see myself wrestling daffodils. I'm running in a vast sea of gold and pumpkin colored waves, turning and thrashing in the wind. As their faces turn towards the sun to seek for motherly warmth, I watch. They speak to me, though i cannot hear them. Screaming warnings I cannot comprehend, the petals fall and stems droop until death overtakes them. Just then a gust of icy wind penetrates my skin through the fine fabrics of clothing. Decaying corpses lay around my feet while I sprint, trying to escape. Their lifeless eyes follow me while I look around helplessly. Stories placed skillfully on their faces tell tales of betrayed love, crushed love, abused bodies. I start to slow, reading the vulnerable expressions unmasked from the carefully molded mugs. Collapsing to my hands and knees I cry out for the pain of these lifeless bodies because they cannot, I cry out because they are unable to. Not willing to risk telling the stories of their damaged souls. The skies suddenly brighten and birds sing their sweet melodies. Rising to my feet, I look around in amazement. The masks return to the faces of the corpses and once again I am surrounded by daffodils. Beautiful, 'perfect' daffodils.

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