A dream.

This is the dream of continual motion. I never do anything, I am doing something. I am climbing a hill on a rocky path that smells of mushrooms. I am waving about a long stick. I am thinking of you. I am smoking moon-shaped peyote cigarettes. I am cresting a rise to see a carpet of farmland on the valley floor. I am thinking of you. I am wearing a shirt made of extraterrestrial fabrics. I am scratching at a scab on my left thigh. I am thinking of you.