Ch.2-Under the Latent Heat of Dreams and the Ridiculous Pressure of Minds

At times, all you can think of is some ugly grey scribble across the plate glass of your sanity. At night, all you can dream of is the simultaneous existence of the colored craving things under the plate glass of your sanity. At night, in my corner room on the third floor, I can hardly sleep for dreaming.

Last I remember, I came here for something. For myself, I think, but I can't remember why. Last night, I could hardly sleep around this dream of my sister face-to-face with a lion I prefer to forget. He told her that I was on the verge of a fall (and the word was so pretty and dark-green that I only half-minded). She cried for me. He said he would send someone to me.

Donald, he is mine and I would half-prefer to fall. Sanity is like a little polite cough-- ineffectual, defeated. I can feel the broken lines in the glass, and all the colored craving things within stroke the surface of the glass and press a little harder against it. The escape is on the verge.

His claims are not so ineffectual as I like to pretend. I only half-mind; I only half-sleep.