Clutch Your Head.

A bird's egg in my hand, the world is blue.

A rusted out old car, cold to the touch and warm to the eye, holds itself sloppily over a tree root, its tyres rotted away. Its window's broken glass shards shine on dirty seats.

It is a life. A life lived, now lost, not yet over and not yet with a use or satisfaction. 

Coins rain down out of the towers of the rich, the poor purchase the towers, and in their happiness rain down coins.

I had a dream about you all. One with wonder, and eyes, and judgment, and loss. You all gazed up in wonder, Or perhaps down in sadness, or across a great schism of strangeness to me. And you cheered, or scorned, or laughed at me, naked and bloody in my pit of misery, clothed golden in silk and crowned in my majesty, and motley clad in my bemusement.

'Now I do not know whether I am a man dreaming he is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he is a man.'

Have I gone too far? Have I slipped into places that minds and dreams are not meant to wander, and tasted fruit forbidden?

Or am I a frog in a well, unable to imagine the ocean?

Is it both? Neither? 

And I felt the world spinning in my hand, a birds egg, as blue as a forgotten lie.