A bed time story about drowning in guilty pleasures after dark. There is no logic there. So glad to see you well, after all this. Time. But no healing, there are no healing hands, just probing hands, searching through memory, no shielding children going deep or shallow, he comes out with a tiny, scared, crying child in his arms. Never grow up or out from this. Submit. Not a dream though i can't remember physically doing it. Not a dream, a memory. (Not a dream.) I would definitely wake up before that point.
(created using snippets of newspaper headlines, a song lyric, and personal response to material.)
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