the wager

Chasing dreams. As if they're darting, impish sprites. And we, the frantic pursuers, have our nets at the ready. Nothing about life, to me, seems like a chase. Perhaps I'm too slow and so the race becomes a farce and I am left standing breathless and windblown at the starting gate. But I'd rather sink into dreams. Or nestle softly in them. Or even dance them around a crowded terrace on an ultraviolet night. I am no pursuer of dreams. Dreams are fields full of daisies and I couldn't pick all of them if I tried; the bouquet would be too decadent for my simple country table. I am. by definition, highly capable of saying nothing I mean and, in doing so, saying everything I could possibly mean. There's nothing in a dream that can't be found by lying in the sun, staring at orange-darkened eyelids.

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