And then I awoke.
I can't tell you how long I've been dreaming in narrative, but it's been this way on and off since around the time I first noticed that clouds could be mountains. My body relaxes into disconnect, and my mind fires up a thousand type-writers, sending indelible streams of ink into the prefrontal cortex of my brain, covering everything in words. Skies of grammar and ground of punctuation. If I haven't experienced it in a book, the sensation is not in the dream. The air smells of library and bergamot, and the wind whispers poetry in my ears, subtle readings of Elliot and Poe rising and falling with the temperature. The only way that colour is experienced is in that odd dream-esque way of knowing but not knowing.
And then, as sure as surfacing, she arrives.
She is comprised of the tiniest font possible, thousands of verbs and adverbs and adjectives and cliched phrases race over her flesh, are her flesh. In spite of the constant motion of her skin, she does not move, although she is never in the same position.
She is motionless in motion.
I've been seeing her for months now. She's a customer at my work, she's leaving the coffee shop right as I place my order, she's just behind the shelves in the library, on the street, in the sky and now, in my dreams.
I'm not obsessed, I'm not stalking, I wouldn't even say I'm interested. She wasn't my type, but she also wasn't so thoroughly not my type that she was my type in a roundabout way. She wasn't exceptionally plain, but didn't quite drip with that gorgeousness that some people seem to exude in place of carbon dioxide.
She simply was and simply wasn't.
Yet there she was in helvitica and times new roman, haunting me in the friendliest way possible.
I think her name was Fire.
But I'm probably wrong.
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