A dinghy made of sugar cubes.
The rare sweet dream is this to me.
The dramatist in me often equates my struggle with anxiety and panic with a lone swimmer dog-paddling in the middle of a turbulent sea. (Oh, how the melodrama rolls in me.)
Anyhow, I remember every dream I ever have and 99.999% of them leave a foul taste in their wake.
But the glorious nice ones which appear out of nowhere, I crawl upon them and rest… before they dissolve back into the seas.
A sweet boat came to me last night and I rested and smiled.
Chloe, that annoying dramatist