.I don't think either of us know what we're doing.

If there was a dreammaster who sent you your dreams at night, I'd hunt mine down and beat the crap out of him.

They're too vivid, too real and in the morning I'm almost crushed when I have to face the reality that they're not real.

There was no field party. He didn't chop all of his hair off, nor did he linger around me, making me confused as to what he really wanted. He didn't work with children and he didn't still love me.

Technicoloured bullshit.

Hah.

But man, Amber's futon is Heaven sent. I could sleep on that damn thing all day. It's so strange that even though she lives in a new house the familiar things make it feel like home here. The coffee maker, the stupid sugar shaker, the blanket on the couch. It's just bizarre.