Spont...

Like some madman I sit and type on in a cramped cubicle, pounding away on some unknown project doomed to ponder the complexities of the innumerable concept infinite. My brow soaked with sweat, my eyes quivering, my back hunched over, glasses tipped over the edge of my nose, I can only sit and stare, and think, delving deeper into the pits of abstraction, getting infinitely farther away from my goal.

Down into the chambers of incessant violence my mind strays, witnessing the likes of [message truncated** edit done] and ever out of my dreams I hear their voices still.

Up into that city in the clouds I fly, pillowed in the company of grace. Figures of pure light dine with me, welcoming my soul to freedom. Indeed, William Wallace himself makes an appearance, but now in glorified form. Heaven? No. Just a random city in the clouds where the spirit realm is readily seen with waking eyes. And the iron claw of wakefulness now attacks my senses.