if all of our dreams are bad dreams the
how does one define a nightmare?
we never played back the overexposed
film to find out
our answers were disregarded and
canisters of snakes and cellophane filled the shelves
the commercialization and subsequent
disposal of thoughts was comforting
in the same way that the end of the
rope almost seems peaceful a few moments later
when faced with the quiet post-riot
gravity which glides in softly to feed on carcasses of rage and
carrion men
how long before flames can no longer
destroy ideas
and arson only burns things?
will our thoughts be digitized before
they find us dangling from the rafters of a charred and
ancient library?
can our nightmares survive if we never
choose to speak them?
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