I S E E H I M,
E V E R Y W H E R E ( R E D U X )
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I am in a dream running. This is always the case. In dreams, the running. In my dream, I feel trite, running. I wish, not in my dream, but now, that I were doing something more theatrical. Not that I am always running in my dreams, but that this is always the case.
It would follow that there would be the warm breath on the back of my neck. I feel it, not in my dream, but at other times. Not uncomfortable, mind you, unless of course it is rather sticky and close otherwise. Sometimes it only feels like it is there to urge, prod. Encourage. That it might catch me, push me down, and clamber on by is a fear I have.
Of course I cannot turn. What do you expect? It is my dream after all.
Maybe, of course, I only imagine the breath. Not in my dreams, but now. A running dream, the triteness of which is well established, is at least nominally more theatrical with this breath. But probably, no, it is a wisp. Figmentous. I hope that it is there, cloying, perhaps even too initmate.
It's probably far up ahead of me, and definitely not running. That would be silly. A breath running. And I can't see it, not in my dream. So I run after now, not in my dream.