Remnants of dream can be embarrassing come morn, the overriding aesthetic is longed for that would round off that tinge of shame that qualifies droplets of otherwise unqualified joy. The spillover into reality, the concrete magic, the emanation of vapor: that too is anticipated, but with that same tinge. The dance of light you hope will dot off the eyes soon, but no hurry no hurry, this is an old ritual. The play of shadows is but a play, the pain fails to soothe only if you fail to
chime along with the plotline.
The plotline gets thicker, or does it? The remnants jostle for position as the solemn tryst which gave the dream its substance rests in cool shade. There is more to it than the story line which is but a thread of a lifeline thrown to keep you busy while night manages shadow the way it knows best.