Pomegranate thoughts drip from my mouth to the ears of a provolone-ly moon-faced man with gaping wisdom-tooth-sized-cavities with roots deep in impracticalities.
Like: the inevitable nature of sleep and dreams, my pillow sours. A flushed cheek turns cool wondering at the thing, the monster lurking near the drinking glass… a tinge of a dream that singed a lash as it fluttered fully open.
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