Wa-wa what's this? Fa-la-la ah, flannel. Du-di-du Dream Door. Ne, ne. No no, na na napper! Du-du Dream Napper Wa-wa what du-i-tu-du, What did you call this? Pa pa pajamyunikeeshon. Pa-pa-purple and blue or did Di-did ya-ya-you say grean? Ma-must be dozing off, Maa ikka, whoa hello, Pa-pa-passing through edges of Dreams. It's just how we meet when we're both touching seams. Okay, okay, no. I couldn't talk about at home. No, there was no one to talk to when I was alone. My parents were afraid of demons, superstitious, They didn't trust other languages weren't malicious, They thought I was praising satan if i said "oishii" for "delicious" So I kept a dream journal, then from it I made art. Dream origin undisclosed so it wasn't picked a part. Recycling from my head, out my hands, through my heart No discussion meant not ever knowing, How unusual the world that I'd been growing. The same figure just continued showing. And he also kept aging with continuity, As I grew he stayed the same ratio to me, So of course I took it all naturally. I rationalized it by using logic, The pajama thing is hypnagogic, Just an "art-brain" doing art-stuff, that might be pedagogic. Anything is possible, Not everything is rational, Ask if things are probable, Not all things are provable, Probably just a dream recycled, Day, and nap, and night, on cycles. (Cycle) (Cycle) Recycled. Dream it, write it, Read it, draw it, See it, sing it, Dream it. yeah. Recycled. Wa-wa Wabi-sabi Ah-la-la ah, Art. Du-di-du Dream Mmm mm ma my Muse Ma-ma Music Wa-wa what du-i-tu-du, What do I want to make today? Da da da Dream journal, Music and mind, my muse, Me. My Dreams. Art. Crosses the seams. It's just how I make things. Okay, okay, but. Even before that, from the beginning, Yes, the story just unfolded whether I was losing or winning. My universe had coherent rules, like underpinning. They didn't change, they held together. So outcomes of past dreams were consequences I had to weather Wake up. Write down every detail I remember. If something stood out, an image or a song, I would write it down or draw it but it was always a little wrong. A tad disproportionate. A lines a little too long. Recycling source material from my head, out my hands, through my art. No discussion meant not ever narrating, How intricate the universe Dreams were dictating. The same iconography kept influencing what I created. The more it filled my artistic focus, The cycle was fed; inspiration locus. The same story just kept going on. Pixieland felt separate from other dreams, with no song. As I drew I defined my style, you see, this a little off, that a little long. I personalized it to my taste and feel, The mono-no-aware and liminal unreal, Just an "art-brain" doing art-stuff that might be surreal. Anything can be imagined, Not everything can be created, Ask what themes are related, Never perfectly recreated, Anyway it's just a dream recycled, Day, and nap, and night, on cycles. (Cycle) (Cycle) Recycled. Dream it, write it, Read it, draw it, See it, sing it, Dream it. yeah. Recycled. Anyway it's just a dream recycled. (Day, and nap, and night) (Day, and nap, and write) (Day dream, and write, at night.) Recycled. Another cycle. A normal cycle. A normal psyche, Others like me, Just a dreamer artist. Lots of writers did this. Inspiration across the seam, Writing what they dream. Another cycle. A normal cycle. A normal psyche, Maybe there are others like me, There's gotta be. Recycle, (spin) Recycle, (spin) Recycle. (Again) (Again)
