Saturday, December 30, 2017

Dream Journal

I pull the book from the library shelf.

Why am I usually alone in here at the library?

The binding on the book is very old.

It smells of old cologne, like it had lain in a desk drawer or maybe a dresser?

I can hear the crinkle of the pages, as if they would crumble beneath my fingers if I were to flip them.

I begin to read about a man and his story of days of old.

He speaks of a different time and place, one of which I recognize…

How is this even possible?


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