There is a rainy man in me, using my heart as an umbrella, pulling at strings roughly disrupting electronics.  A man in my chest rubbing stones making fire and cooking fury in rushed moments.  There is a man in my mind speaking softly in whispers like gusts of wind that blow his grey beard touching my brain flashing images, quickly fleeting.  Making the real unreal, fast fancies and fantasies in thundering swirl rotations floating absurdly in make-believe.

Briefly before bed, touching sleep and awake at the same time—jolting limbs, like they are rejecting the unreal, the opportunity of escape.  Escape, in one little sentence slowed to exaggeration then to story, chopped by new thoughts quickly changing scenes turned to dreams.