Sometimes, when I’m a long way from home, I can live off nothing but dry toast and nightmares. I count the stars painted on the clouds, there is safety here, a practiced art of ascension. I don’t sleep anymore, but I think a lot about time. I watch the sunrise and the sunset and see how beautiful insomnia can be. My head is full of forests laden with lost pocket watches. I am living Dali’s dreams.
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