Dreaming dreams that are pitch black with nothing but evacuation alarms going off and robotic voice shouting, “please leave the building NOW.” Now, I woke up to static. I woke up thinking an atomic bomb had exploded and we had all become little green embers, glowing, trying to run away. (From what? Our own failures?) I think I need to go on vacation. I think I need to be by the sea and be washed away until my lungs want to explode.

Flowers are nice. Yes. But I think it is much nicer to sit in graveyards and read books aloud. The dead need to hear a good story from time to time. It’s the least we the living can do for them.

Fingers tracing foggy windows to make little shapes marked “o” and “y.” But no real coherent language to translate on to paper. Packing up trunks to set sail for Antarctica. Will set up camp for cold-blooded, melancholy romantics. All welcome. We will live off champagne and fudge and build an army of rosy cheeked dreamers who can throw, with perfect aim, canons filled with fire flies and star dust. Guns will shoot sonnets riddled in nonsensical wisdom and we’ll send telegrams to world leaders, via pure white peppered moths, sabotaging them to send our way all their countries roses, which we will freeze to satisfy our need for beauty. Messages in bottles will be consistently thrown into waters with one way tickets for the camp to all those with heavy hearts, who can never stop wishing on stars.

And in such a way, slowly, we will start a revolution, in the land where darkness is a rare luxury, of hearts and minds. And when we die we will become the stories we cultivated. Icy pulses rendered immortal through our tongues in the land that everyone else had always doubted.

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Perpetually tired. Perpetually tired of tumblr. Going to have a Before Sunrise/Sunset marathon (and dream about Before Midnight, because Delpy and Hawke steal my heart) and smother myself in the scent of Easter Lilies. My dreams are not my own. I’ll be back soon, hopefully with poppies in my hair.