- Il est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants, Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies, — Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants, Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies, Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens, Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.
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- There are perfumes that are fresh like children's flesh, sweet like oboes, green like meadows — And others, corrupt, rich, and triumphant, having the expansiveness of infinite things, like amber, musc, benzoin, and incense, which sing of the raptures of the soul and senses
The posts that will follow are a collection of short stories I started writing in June. They tell about my dreams and how I totally get lost in them.
One of the reasons I put them down is that I hadn't been dreaming in a long time, or maybe I just started forgetting about my dreams.
When I was younger I had pretty amazing stories with which I could entertain my friends on an almost hour long bus ride and I think I kind of wish I could have that back.
The other reason is that I have been observing people around, friends. too..and lately they all have been talking about dreams, without ever mentioning what their dreams are about. Unfair.
Dreams are full of weird stuff we don't understand.
Sometimes we only pretend we don't.
Sometimes we only pretend we don't.
My dreams are full of symbols.
What about your dreams?
What about your dreams?
A Maze in my Dreams
A Maze in my Dreams II
He Said She Said
