We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 157–158
My dreams are my own, but powerful. They consist of shapes, colors, faces, and movement; elegance in simplicity to understand the complexity of my world. Soon they will become more elaborate, with plots and subtext. For now, I’m happy to dream peacefully while people gently kiss my forehead and tell me I’m adorable.
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When you dream,
What do you dream about?
Are they colour or black and white,
Yiddish or English
Or languages not yet conceived?
Are they silent or boisterous?
Do you hear noises just
Loud enough to be perceived?
Do you hear del shannons runaway playing
On transistor radio waves?
With so little experience,
Your mind not yet cognizant
Are you wise beyond your few days?
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