I dreamt I was dead for forty thousand years.
It was only a twenty minute nap.
Nobody believes me, so I’ve been thinking of writing a novel
describing the first eighty or ninety years of the dream.
I don’t quite know where to start though since
absolutely nothing happened.
I was just dead.
In nothingness.
Even blank pages are misleading.
Perhaps the only accurate way I can
get across what I went through
is if I don’t write a book at all.
Tiny Finger Point