Dissipate.

some mornings are all about a feeling of disappearance -- the sensation of drifting into the aether, of unreality and the way sleep bleeds into waking moments.

i have no rhymes for these days, days where opening my eyes is a folly, where morning and afternoon and evening blur and slide, collapsing into a singularity. there is no meaning to them, no reason to be awake, and so i never wake.

perhaps if i had never taken a bite of the apple, perhaps if i had never touched the spindle, perhaps if the mirror had not shattered, perhaps if the lotus remained uneaten, perhaps if the prince were not just as asleep as i --