this is if only [dot] org

trazodone gold-plates my dreams, leaving me convinced that I’m reprising a lived-through past. on reflection, I see details gleaned from past dreams themselves, and from fragments of late-night conversation: the river trip, the whitewashed tunnel. but the overwhelming familiarity of names and people in these stunning reveries reminds me that, more than ever, my day’s life becomes a search for dreamstuff and its sanctuary.