Every night I wake to my own fleeting hell, in which I question myself "Are the dreams that wake me really worse than the reality I wake too?" I'll probably never really know the answer, because the subject too often changes, the dreams never stay the same and I never know what to expect, except that every night I will undoubtedly wake up, covered in sweat, with my mouth filled with copper, draining to the back of my throat.
I guess it never really matters, could dreams kill me? If they could would I want them too? Do I? Will it? I could never know what was going to happen to me, could have never expected it to be as horrible as it really was, but I guess I never could off.
Not with my NightMares.
