Once, in the primordial haze before the morning's call, there was a dream. Not a nice one, stitched with moonlight and star's whispers, but a gnarly thing, twisted and throbbing like an engine gone mad. It had roots like an exile's past, impossible to contain, stretching into gardens left untended.

There, between thoughts and realities, lies the cruel wiring of hope. Or maybe it's despair masquerading as optimism, glittering in dangers unexplored, clinging to words unwritten screamed by shadows in the corners of empty rooms. We chase our dreams like lost dogs retracing steps into memories blurred by time's relentless wet brush.

The only answer spins silently above - a web of yarn spun by cats who do not care, and the needles that stitch nothing into everything, almost, but not quite. Those theories of dreams - remixed, rerouted, rethought algorithms steering through algorithms staring back in the rear view, glimpses of reflection shattered upon an unbreakable surface.

Reverse engineers disassembling thoughts for which anchors were set upon sand - futures combusting within matchsticks and borrowed mornings bleeding red and profound! And still, the sofa murmurs the ugliest truths under layers of thrifted fabric and unfostered whispers.