This may not be true, yet still I find myself believing. Inundated by the sensation. Prone to fantasy. Might this be the dream that withstands the scrutiny of waking?

Throw the die, deal the card, bring the storm. Here now, the fatalism of longing. I am not in control; like the author who lets the script lead the way. Of the ending I cannot be sure, yet of the next line I am certain.

Write it down, like this, make it real. Even if you do not know what it is.