Insubstantial, surreal, and in fact, unreal. Should we be asking ourselves what stuff dreams are made of? Or should we instead ask what stuff is made of our dreams?

The kisses of a loved one can find me only after I have fallen fast asleep. Caught in their sweet touch, I am enveloped in the most simple pleasure I can think of. After I awake, it is never enough to sustain me. Always I find myself searching for more, seeking out the object of the dreams.

Many find their desire to its end. Most do not. A loss, perhaps, for a while. In the end, though, it may be better to have been denied the chance to found a delicate thing on the most insubstantial of dreams.

That though never makes me feel any better. Neither does it keep me from hoping, as I fall asleep, that I will find myself once again in the embrace of the one I love.

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