In my dream I witnessed bridges torn asunder by the wrath of my own hands. Swaying and swaying and swaying, back and forth, left and right, horizontal, vertical, diagonal, and swaying. The sky was dark by the smoke with which the torches breathe, and on the following minute an explosion so devastating the world experienced a monumental crash. All by my doing and everyone staring at me from below with vile and intent.

They rebel against the cause by which their lives were put upon.

But there was no cause.

Destruction is neither my salvation nor theirs. Neither my entertainment nor theirs. There are things that least require comprehension. There are things that just go out of the way of their course and into new velvet.

An elevator, when my best friend fell from the topmost part crevice, woke me up to a deep, dark breathlessness in bed, confused without relief. The blanket comforts from my trapezius up to the ankles, all except the toes.

The bridges I tore are back to normal, as my eyes begin to shy away.

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