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Tonight, kept company by the sounds of an early morning moon, I observe from my balcony the city below, people sleeping and therein dreaming. I have a friend who once was sane, but now is not. He attempted to wake one dawn to find his fantasies drawing breath on their own; that during the night some prankster had enclosed him on the wrong side of reality, where it is his word which pronounces things sin or virtue, his pen which wrote the chapter Gensis. I have heard it said that sleep is a place of well lit mirrors and of nudity, a room entered without benefit of even a loincloth to let remain a single precious self illusion -- that it is, in fact, that box wherein resides the measure of us all. Poor fellow, my friend, caught, awake and forever, in a garden nurtured by his own desires, uninhibited. I once thought and now know that we do not sleep to escape reality, rather we wake to escape the honesty of our dreams.
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