When the windows shut and the bustle subsides I retreat into the marble dome where further worlds reside, Where matter and form erased by nightly balm fade into folklore as logic slips from my palm before the final glimpse.
There I lay, fluid matter over solid mind, out of sight and out of time I am over and under. A paper for all facets once gone adrift to be disclosed in cryptic glyphs.
Good or bad, virtuous or criminal, all memories and thoughts gather at nocturnal call. The night from which we hide, the purest light from which we conceal our plights left unfulfilled for sake of social rites.
It is then I awake messenger and receiver. To take to pen and paper all that once was far, nearer. To hide from our modern kings; logic and rationality, that which holds no validity; dreams.