I had slept from noon until 8:40 PM, and had one of the more bizarre dreams that I am making a document of in this narrative.  It would be of darker words that would be written, among what my cousin told me of the death of her closest cousin is what invoked the dream.  That it was in her age that had got to me because it was that which triggered the dream and what I describe of the dream that I had when I slept was that I was staying in the Write Inn at Elmhurst, but when I was there time was relative in the dream because when I was walking around — I was the only one who nbsp be awake and alive, but the smell in the halls were that of a stale death odor, and the year was in the mid nineteen-nineties, inside was that would be of the mid would.  It would be in the written thoughts that would be in the mind of when 1920’s had been walking around and when it was a writer’s ball but all the writers in the ball were deceased and the patrons were those who died in their sleep and they were alive in their dreams.  It would be in their waiting thoughts that would be in the raptured,  the dreams that would be in the writings which are looking from in the hole where I would see in the things which are left unwritten.
   It would be in the written words that would be in the illusions of thoughts and dream; among the words that would remain in the mind when they would sleep, it would be all reflecting the dreams written inside of me. It would be the hate inside that would be wasted but kept it for myself. That it would be in the dreams that would be written would reflect the times when I had fell asleep in study hall during finals that it would be the dream that I would write where I would be alone in the hallways where I would scream and would not here nothing. That there was nothing in the words that could not be spoken though it would be as when ever — in the words shunned as a blasphemy. It would be in the words in the confessional denial. Of the forlorn dreams that would be in the sleep — the words written of the mind in the inner chasm of hell. Of the written tormenting that would be inside. It would be the inner thoughts contemplating on the silent prayers that would be in the dying thoughts among the words of the forlorn — the written of the withered would be the shadow of the molested mind.
   Of I who would be the one writing of this — in the words written in the dream, would be the ones who had passed on in their sleep. That in the horror would be the written dreams, that would be the forlorn and withered thoughts that are broken — it would be the torments of the Goddamned words which are written, that it would be in sin would be spoken of the mental illness. Frozen thoughts at the time when one withers, it would be the dreams that would be written in the forlorn. That would be in the thoughts that would be written of the damnable words inside — that when one would walk around on vast streets when the smell of stale death fills the air, combined with the musty odor from a winter’s decay. In the images of the dying; what would be in their unwritten dreams are what cannot really be described but what would be in the mind of them trying to run for the home they lived in when they are alive only to be running around within circles of infinity.
   In which it is written, the words of the blind gospels speak within dreams that are not written — that it would be in the words recited from the inner depths of the black flame. It would be that among the words and dreams of the winter’s withering dream. Desolate among the ones who would be written in the book of life after death that when they look at heaven as being full of emptiness. That it would be in the words written in faith, it would be the nightmares reflecting their emptiness — among the words of the blessed disease would be the ones who cast their foreboding shadows. That of I among the words of the no one — that it would be the no one who would see in the dreams that would be the reflection of the fears that are written. It would be the diaries which keep the document of the words written inside. In the troubled thoughts that in the forlorn mind all who would pass on — that it would be in the times that would be the forever changing as the one beneath the ground shall sleep without dreaming. Though it would be the spiraling nightmares of their eternity which would ask the question if they had died.
   In the words of the withering dreams of the forlorn, it is the fortunate with none are the ones who would have the understanding of what is far behind. In the suffering nightmares which one sits alone in the vast shadows would be the faith in emptiness. In the written words of the circle of belief, that it would be the words written of the Good Lord taking one in their sleep — that it would be the workings of the reaper doing her waltz, in the symphony of the forlorn. That it would be in the sleep, which it is written where a cancer grows when the rain is in bloom during a black winter’s day. Of the withering memories that would be written — it would be in the ornate dreams which would write the words of the winter’s siren. Of the nightmares, I am the one who writes this among the dreams inside the writer’s ball. That it would be gathering among the ghosts of those who passed on in their sleep would be the dreams that would be their way of speaking the ones who they left behind among the living. From the written thoughts; among the words written inside of the dream — one looking through the dreams through a microscope among the words written in the absence of color. That it would be written in the horrors among the fear; among the nightmare which is dreaming but yet they have been passed on.
   That it is when they dream, and their body sleeps — their soul would walk on with the living. Fires in the dreams would write among the forlorn thoughts. It would be in the nocturnal horrors that would be in the mind asking the questions of the what if, among the nightmares of the ones who would sleep then pass on in their sleep. The words of the written fear and the condemnation among the written and withered dreams; forlorn. It would be all who would sleep and never awaken that would see the dreams within the black winter’s day — it would be the cold loneliness among the faith of emptiness. In the prayers of salvation of sins; would be the dreams within the confession of denial. Revelations — it would be in the written words of the sleeping prophets that would be in the eyes of the philosophers. It is in the written and forlorn — the letters written of the writer’s ball.
   It would be the heaven sitting beside the thoughts inside; that it would be the written would be the forlorn. In the mourning — would be the dreams of the horror to the words inside the hell’s waiting inside. That it would be the darkness driving the addiction that would not die. Among the words of the amon — it would be in the gathering of the congregations would be the shunned among the thoughts which would be the forlorned — it would be in the shunned illness; the molesting prayers that would be in the sermons of the small town tent ministers who try to justify horrors that be as being “God’s Will.” When they read of the written nightmares — they would hold their Bible closer in as they would fall asleep. In their thoughts; stupified — it would be in the minds of those who reside near Wheaton College, and the students would try to be the ones to convert the thinker into a believer who prays from the cryptical philosopher who writes about their forlorned dreams and haunting nightmares.
   Forlorn; in the shunned mind that would be written, as it would be seen through the eyes of the cryptical. That it would be in the words of the broken — it would be the torment running from my fingers as they would rush across the keyboard as Edgar Allen Poe would with a quill with ink bleeding from its bottle and papyrus that would be in his written letters. It is in the letters written in emotional torment that would be the acknowledgement of denial — the denial of the one who had been crucified. That one had said who died in my place and did not ask to die. It was in the words written in the sleep. In the eyes that are written; among the words of the forlorn — it would be the dreams beyond the walls of sleep. That when they would see in the dreams from the writer’s ball — it would be seen in the eyes of the ones who faded on in their sleep that it would be in the dreams that would be in the blackest tunnel of a black winter’s day.
   Among the written words in the nightmares addiction; it would be the words of the forlorn sleeping beneath the ground in a iron box — it would be the horrors inflicted; it would be the nightmares written in the words of the thoughts. It would be the things written among the sinners and saints that would be in the mourning of the forlorned; the impending fear is standing alone inside as a person alone in a field of corpses and rotting flesh. As much as he was trying to scream; it would be nothing but a deafening silence in the place of weeping, crying and gnashing of teeth. As I would describe this dream, the words written of the crytical dream would be the closest thing to hell without dying — the desolate; it would be in the faith the emptiness waiting for them. That as this is written — the loudness of the deafening scream had awakened me from my deadened sleep; from the awakening from the sleep of the forlorn.