"Take care, your worship, those things over there are not giants but windmills."
~ Don Quixote de la Mancha, by Miguel Cervantes
I dream of dreams of the unexpected. Images of the odd, which... seem not odd, but follow an order, a logic which looses it'self' in the unknown strings of time. I have different memories, in my dreams, - all spin themselves inside my perceptions as the worms of illusion so often do. Inside people. Eating, or, perhaps, feeding their dreams.
And the days, all now seem equal, and the nights spend their darkness motionless in the 'sight of thought'... and windy dreams so often crawl towards their source ... the windmills.
The giants ... they scare me when I reach out for an image spawn in the deep sea of my ... mind? Self? Addiction... to being and ... to time?
To sea ... to Sea or not to See? That is the question.
... and the Dilemma : Are We our Dreams, or are our Dreams Us?