...Everyday I wake up trying to remember the script of my past dreams; left vainly clutching at the fading trinkets of my reprieving golden fleece, my hidden away safety net discovered between hemorrhaging seams; always left scrambling for a pen and paper upon which to reincarnate those scenes, as if by chance they'll become more than nebulous things, as if those dreams could pass through the highway of my subconscious, to flutter into my awakened mind, and sink out of my pen in the form of visible ink.