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The Dime
Dreams can wound. Dreams can sink hooks into your heart and drag, leaving heavy would that seem, in the first few moments of waking, as if they will last your entire life. Dreams know you too well, and are built on more primal things than memory. Indeed, memory is your enemy as well, lying in bed, trying desperately to keep all the pieces together, because losing just one is cause for suicide. Dreams are made on deeper things. You don't need to see the face, obscured by the sunlight from the west window in the house you grew up in; the dreams tell you that you love this stranger, and you do, passionately, and he is no one you have ever met before. The sensation, so precious, of being asked to place the gun at his heart spawns so many sibling sensations, and the heartache of the dream, the epic that began at slumber and lasted all night, comes back in emotions, with small wisps of story and context. Dreams pray on you and your weak defenses, eating up mental chemicals you try so hard to connect to masks of matter and form. Dreams are so sharp, they slip between your ribs like they are paper, and blade-tip-to-heart, you cry out.

I hate my dreams this morning, but they said "you will feel pain, you will feel melancholy and isolation, despair and survival, and you will understand the story". What could I do but agree? I have never dreamt so hard in my life. I hate everything.

This too will pass.
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