I often wake up with the best of intentions, complete plans, carefully organized itineraries, place to be, people to see, yet equally as often those promises are deleted by a simple turn of the head upon crisp cotton pillows. One of the most enlightening realizations that come with adulthood is that imaginary excursions can be quite as rewarding and less hazardless than in actual actuality, one of my favorite usages of verbal repetition. The realm of the dream, the vast kingdom of well-orchestrated illusion, has ever been one of my favorite situations to inhabit. So much can be accomplished in that nether world that would be vilified, frowned upon, defamed in reality, as well as all the equally bountiful pleasant, happy, flowery situations of similar unlikelihood.
By choice, or by coercion, we all abide in a daily connived literary confusion, an amalgam of fact and fiction intertwined to present just enough truth to ensure some small belief is substantiated in the most elaborate of theatric happenstances.
Swallow you own bait at considerable peril.