dream \ ˈdrēm \

if my dreams were books they would be a series of unfortunate events the bad beginning, like a tortoise being thrown in a pond. that is that much like houses with wide windows, they cant swim. all these thoughts just milling, miserably around my mind like sawdust in a breeze, stuck to every corner causing a feeling quite austere. austere meaning in this case, of course, stern and cold. my dreams could never feel very morally strict, that would defeat the purpose. like an elevator that only goes down, it would be rather ersatz. these dreams are often vile, hostile, and often time carnivorous, devouring what little rest i have before i can wake up and leaving me sliding down the slippery slope of dark thoughts, into a grim grotto of depression, anxiety, seemingly the penultimate place i will find myself before i reach the end.