so the words knock in vain and nothing sticks

In a dream I dreamed some few maybe several dreams ago—they’re hard to count, hard, sometimes, to notice—I missed the city. From within it. Or above and through it, rather, soaring or perched, perhaps, perhaps parallaxed, in a sense—what’s the word for seeing through another’s eyes—in any event, above and through it I was and I saw its sights palindromatically from actual possible heights like blurry vignettes, like sketch scenes and stories and in the morning the sky was banality and banality was a trope of a reminder that presence isn’t about not dreaming, it’s about dreaming from here, from kitsch and cliché and this, all this, and everything it both is and isn’t, the flux and fuss of unrelenting contradiction. Tell me what’s beautiful about that and I’ll run with it—such is my morning prayer, resolute and irreligious.

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