A lot of odd dreams lately.
They run the gamut from violent—breathtaking Chan-wook Park style acts of vengeance set against dusky apocalyptic backdrops
—to inane—talking sloths rocking Oliver Peoples glasses and red Jansports hanging from trees outside my bedroom window.
And the girls are back—some new, some old.
Either I'm being incepted or the wilderness of my mind is looking for a way out.
Banking on the latter.
I think I need to get back to creating. Fuck Freud.