My morning sleep was abused by a long forgotten dream. The same fear, the sound of anxiety creeping up on me and the threat of it coming true. Like specters from my past, like a once written letter which never found its way to the postman. Waking up feels like the aftermath of having been administered medication when a child-- that time when every pill was bitter to swallow. Or the hangover of the first romantic crusade of youth- heartbreak circus and guerrilla warfare outside her school...Dreams like these are terrible for the soul. In the glass arteries of the heart, where mercury flows, where the Muse of Venus treads on marble floored shopping malls, the soul emerges scarred, marred and charred.