Fish through my hair, and other anomalies
From the 99% of life unseen ...
We call them dreams, these partial memories
Of old realities, where any scene
Can be played again, any phantasy
Concocted to a thing, but what is this?
The entertainment's electricity
From last night still entrains your synapses ...
That's the dream you want, a meal pre-made to dine,
For the subliminal is too sublime.
What fancy of yours burns through this construction?
The creator you don't know leaves a name.
It is a talisman to further realms,
For it lives beyond any creation.
