personality is the stuff of dreams all chaos is internally perceived my thoughts flow and twist into impressions, emotions and words from my brain to my mouth to God i recreate, exist, destroy recreate, exist, destroy so they are gone. They existed once, woven out of the stuff of dreams but I ate them. who knows when, perhaps ripples from the past shall form faces in this clay scream to the sudden-present world and then be erased the constant root belies its natural state.