How can you tell when a dream dies?
It does not end with a bang or a whimper.
Its death wail cannot be heard with human ears.
It is the sound of decay after expiration.
It is the stillness of a heart after its last, laboured beat.
It does not hide but cannot be seen.
It shrinks and shrivels to an infinitesimal point.
It is lost in a blizzard of the more relevant and important.
Its dim spark fades and fades and fades.
It has no texture, no form, no substance.
It slips through fingers on its way down.
It is neither hot nor cold, rough nor smooth.
It leaves no impression.
It is not the stench of failure, for there was no effort.
It is innocuous and inoffensive.
It is flushed by the wind, out a carelessly left open window.
It is the smell of stale, empty air.
It is not bitter, and certainly not sweet.
It is a taste that illicits no response.
It satisfies not, an indifferent palette refuses discernment.
It is chewed up and spat out.
It was many things that is now nothing.
And there is no sense in mourning.



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