It as if these eyes are being diluted with salt. Visions are blurry, reality is running. What fills the place of the withheld reality are fantastic nightmares. Dark, fanciful elaborated fantasies that are hindering on the edging verge of alternate reality. A place where it is dark, massively open, cold, and involuntarily solitary.
My eyes are burning, but I can still see what was before. I can discriminate the differences between seeing the grainy, dirty salt and seeing the clear blue sky and the consequences that are available from each respective plane. The options are not in abundance, but one and one. Continuity is not possible without the slow sticky process from disbanding from the molasses soaked nightmares.
My eyes are burning and I cannot see. There is now plenty of room to allow my imagination to advocate the waking hallucinations. I am blindly laboring to the whims that desire and need to fill the smallish holes where the salt is not sticking together. There is no consistency out there, but in here there is more than enough. I can always expect the same; the nightmares, the fantasies that have an outlandish undertone. Here I can depend.
In here, there is no outside.
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