Lately, It seems as if my dreams are merely a stream messily pouring from my conscious. Marking my sheets with grass stains from the field where I played as a child. Corresponding too easily. Shuffling reality with subconscious in a way one might shuffle a deck of cards. Hesitant, unsure of when to halt. To not give the opponent an advance, with the discouraged desire for an error of luck to fall upon their own hand. Order falling through the cracks like deja vu.
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