When the dreams flow like sap crawling down the callous skin of the Maple, caressing the grooves like a lover, lacing fingers of amber in each fold and crevice. This time is the only time when the jewels that fall from the mind, slipping into the dark in dazzling cascades of shimmering rain, that the mind, grasped tenderly by the blanket of night, can lean back and rest upon the chest of Eternity, feeling the arms of forever and never wrap around it and stop the sand from falling a grain at a time, if only for a brief few hours to us, but not to it - to the mind, the eternal slumber, painted in Dali-Kubrickian motifs, is forever and never, all and nothing, empty yet always complete.
The dreamer, if only a man or woman or child lost in the wheels and gears and gadgets that dictate or control or direct us as they see fit, lives a life or a moment or an eternity searching and finding and losing everything and nothing only to regain it all in the silent and dark or loud and bright mind each night or day or afternoon, letting their head rest upon a pillow or a couch or a table, but in that time, the dreamer dreams - dreams which leave us incomplete, much like interrupted sleep, where a dream goes on, but suddenly
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