there's a scratching from the back of your head.
something other than the simple kneading claws of a pouncing cougar invites within you the revelation that it's all a dream;
you're lucid in a coma far beyond the realms of life and death where the final quantum waves disperse from your suffocating brain,
spreading out in time like an endlessly percolating field within which you frolic
for an ever receding eternity
minus a day
and then all the way back again
painting the marbled stars
in your own streaks of light.