To love is to paint pictures for the blind. I do not see, said the daydreamer. My dreams are intoxicating, my hangover is waking life. When blanketed in linen armor, nightmares become merely ways to surprise ourselves into feeling. I’ve crossed continents while lucid and flown through twilight across oceans. Empires have come under my control, to assume the crown I needed only to close my eyes. Each night, the ghosts of a haunted mind construct a new world into which we’re thrown. We wake mid-scene to settings of fantasy woven by our unconscious. Then we live through these attempts of self-created fictions like sped up montages, fading in and out of vignettes, each a bizarre piece of an incongruent glued-together puzzle. Tragedy and terror, comedy and love, they fuse in a spin cycle to wash the mind free of entrenched symbols. Strange avatars, abstract figurations, uncanny routines, all of reality is subverted, shown inside out. This world is awash in nostalgia once we take our final trip through the wormhole and reemerge blinking awake in the bedroom. We chase down encore viewings well past the initial matinée has ended, sleepwalking through reveries every dusk until the dawn.