As I shifted between consciousness and slumber, the thought occurred to me that dreamers are given terrible reputations.
The dreamers who admire the softness of the foxgloves and snapdragons that float across a hollow humid twilight drenched in the Moon's finest sand. Or perhaps the dreamers who observe everything in shades of lilac. Those who touch the stone as it morphs to water which ripples across the vacant space of mind, becoming a chain reaction causing tides to swell. Who see reflections of shadows and shadows of thought. That taste first hand the words that drip from the pages of The Great Gatsby and crave the depth of lightheaded description. From the pseudo-omnipotent perspective, they lift and drift into their predisposed adventure or lack there of.
These dreamers have become a artists of something beyond comprehension, and dive head first into the realm of control. The true masters of reality.