At three in the morning, I reach out for an offered ascending hand, my head reeling from what I thought were feathers of dreams, but now realize is real, and the potion of sleep is gone. Seemingly between reality and the road of a promised rapture, I drift upward, my mind grabbing at thoughts passing by. I find myself adrift in a storyteller’s poem. Is this my death, a heaven or hell?
The Bag Lady 
wow! Great take, C!
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Thank you
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