What is this thing, this dream that stays even though the reality around it has long since withered and turned to ash?
Despite appeals by logic and reason it insists upon its groundless argument. Despite all evidence to the contrary it stubbornly refuses to go.
I can pour over it, dissect it, scrutinize it under a microscope and place those parts neatly into piles on the counter. Yet, at night in the dark, when no one is there it reassembles itself and in the morning light there it sits screaming for attention.
It is impervious to the winds of change and the erosion of time, rendering yesteryear as yesterday and decades as minutes.
It is as all thoughts; once it comes into being it cannot be extinguished but by the oblivion of death itself.