Between a vision and a dream. For that matter.
He can't tell the difference between a dream and a nightmare. I'm supposed to be
in love with him
because he's a lot. Like my father. But it's no secret I'm in love with him because he's a lot like me. The anxiety that comes over me when I'm calm about it must be my survival instinct. In tact. The weapons we hide in the grass hatch under full moon assonance and soon everybody's alive again. Exactly like you. And then it goes: Both armies pray for (a) victory exactly like you. You're not vain to imagine it that way. Or paranoid. Or country. Haven. Even then. And everyone wins bare feet in the minute between green and happening, just running through that grass as if the cinema, clasping a mug of caffeine and reasons why it's always been difficult to introduce the heroes back to the ideas of themselves and expect an integrated person to well up in his eyes. But didn't I.
