I was sleeping and I woke up because I felt like I was floating.

My mind awake to your blooming colour, your curved light. Airs of modality are covered by indigo ingress. Warm winds honeysuck the crystal embryo on your thigh. A pleasure that rewinds my memory. The circulation makes my body trip.

Please mind the drainage as I need a lesson in absorption. Close your eyes and see the monochromatic soft waves of a Paleozoic bathtub.

Innumerable floating people on orbicular water. Those typical of a wet vacancy.

Taking a nap on this Sunday void, our transliminal bodies reach Noon, at last. Shadowgraphs of a scaped scent. Olfactory remnants of clear rosewater. Moon night, midnight air flows between us tomorrow, forever. Our skin glows.

We roam the gleaming endless sky. Silvery and stateless. We observe the radiant fading of unknown colours. Slowpoke tearjerker leaves me rainkissed and breathless. A broken aureate echo reverberates above the clouds. Translucent ghosts swirl web-like and crescent. Luminaria phantoms overdose, all colour gone. A bird flies to the sun in a whiteout scene. Radana waves. Nothing.

It’s okay. We can sleep now.

…

Dale Brett is a writer and artist from Melbourne, Australia. He is interested in exploring the melancholic malaise and technological ennui of the 21st century. His work has been featured on Burning House Press, Surfaces.cx and Nu Lit Mag. Hypertextual artifacts found @_blackzodiac.