Sleep is a fleeting imp whose illusion fails to enthrall me. Her delicate grasp on my unconscious mind is nothing to the tenacious grip of my ego onto the physical world. Her elusive spiral dance of mind and imaginings is a wisp of smoke to my stone state of physical reality. She is a lover seen only through a mask and so infrequently seen as to be almost a figment of my own imagination. She is glorious in all of her garments of the manifest unconsciousness. She brings with her dreams of beauty and love and of terrors to awful to be conceived by the waking mind. From her chariot of slumbering you can alight to the beginning of a new day or onto the verdant fields of the afterlife.
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