Six AM is when i finally slid my downward spiral to sleep in my bedroom that had so suddenly been transformed into a desolate + sultry desert by page upon page of streaming consciousness that flowed in a way that felt like, yes, this is still a novel in Spanish and we are just reading it through American eyes.

I cannot dream in Spanish, and so i slept and sunk into a language of sleepy heavy-lidded eyes and it ended again with my flying… this time as if drunk and veering into buildings and slowly being lifted up into consciousness, and do you get the idea that my dreams are like the absolute ground floor of the machinations of my imagination and that in flying i am hiding in between the lines of sleep and awake. flying under the radar of waking thought but escaping the controlling arm of my dreamstate.

Dream is our personal myth … your soul is no different from your dreams. Both are instantaneous.