I wake to clouds crowding my room. I scrape away a flimsy film of fables and inhale a dream.
I drink the nostalgia straight, with no chaser. It has the texture of reconstituted obsolescence. Flavored with bittersweet longing and scented with rose-petal recollection.
I try and swallow slowly. But it evaporates like quicksilver, leaving no trace.

10:43 p.m. - 2015-06-03