Death is not at all like sleep. Sleep is stories told, forms moving, destruction, and stories retold. The very stuff of life is in sleep; the vital and potent consciousness wrangling internally with an external world that is deaf and blind and scentless and touchless, without that which is external, or radically internal, to it, and thinking of it.

By day we encounter death. In the clasp of mortal hand to mortal hand. The woken under everlasting night and day and night. An unfolding story, with a countless cast, played eternal, and without author.

Awake and dream in the day. Dream hot and cold. Dream satiated and starved. Dream good and bad. Dream nations and wars and freedom and fiery revolution.

Dream of the author or not.

We are asleep in the day, triumph and defeat are images created of our large imaginations that fade in light, and desperate not to wake and cease the endless story.