There comes a point where every dream erupts itself, where every dreamidea swells and heaves like a giant curve or suede balloon, and escalates to its highest propensity for air until it pops, ruptures into tiny pieces; a fragmentation of the mosaic that once made your heart turn into a gypsy, or a silly tyrant, or just a plain streak of sincerity. Every idea at one point or another has to burst. Just like a sperm whale calvinizes the sea, mixed up dreams dominate the living. Their death is ever present, hovering like black sheet metal, raw and undefined like molten plastic.
Yes, unsatisfied dreams wander through the streets like abandoned red eyed children, waiting for a doughy fool to fall in love.
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