Have you ever felt... the breath of expiring slumber? When the sun forays into consciousness so raw, that you remain caroused in blissful illusion? The ceiling becomes pure skin, porcelain white and distorted with perfection. Vision smattered with fog and rain blur as if looking through a stormy window, and lights commence a frenzied dance with the tremor of your gaze. Clutched in your hands, sheets dripping with pits and falls of morning light becomes your willing ward. And you wish you can remain there forever, drifting in and out of oblivion. There, you're just a beating heart, a receptical of feeling. Just simply... living.