perhaps around us, linked by some softly crackling oneiric thread, there are those who counterpose others' dreams. on the cirri of the dream's milky table, the redreamer will see what the dreamer forgets: the redreamer the dreamt-of to the one, and the one the dreamt-of to the redreamer. two subjectives assembling a conjective. i'd like to think, that tucked behind sleeplucent walls, asprawl sweat sweetened sheets, that sleepers form a quiet quilt of images... flickered one to the other and more, meeting gently in the night to form dreamscapes, bobbing ebbed and flown together, in complement.
i've been calling on older sources lately, to help me peer around a monolithic case of writelessness. can't even scribble notes for the shadows it lashes out. i woke yesterday, from a fried chicken induced nap, to look up the petrified lightning that once seemed so prescient. called fulgurite, after the latin, it consists of fused-glass sky-roots left behind in sandy areas after lightning. it can be triggered by the amateur meteorologist with a bucket of sand, a long spool of wire and a charged rocket. but i think the make-up may be different, as true fulgurite is hollow, like a vent-worm's tusk. it can't truly be replicated. and so, to dig through the deserts and high-bluffs and to excavate the old lightning's molds seems very telling to one so uninspired (fallen from the height of it? or just unimpressed?). i must go back and reveal the evidence, retinal echoes just weren't enough. i need that fulgurite. i hope unearthing it doesn't untether the heavens. pull on one stitch and you'll pull on them all.