In the valley of the mind, a dream takes flight. It rides the wind, dipping and twisting on the path of a starling, and slows naught for the doubt that nips at its glowing heels. The moment it leaves the ground, the valley is its own. Fog swirls in playful currents, twisting under delicate paper wings as the dream smiles, delighted, and dares to break through the clouds into the sky above. As the chill of the mist washes over it, it blinks open clear eyes. You could look right into them and see nothing but stars; pinpricks, twinkling bright and sweet with promise, yet unfathomable distances away. 

All of a sudden, a new light breaks the horizon. Once hazy and muted, the skyline erupts in bronze and gold. 
The sun rises. 
Harsh. 
Hot. 

There was once a bed that wanted to rot
The poofed pillows and slathering of silk bedsheets and furniture polish that was lovingly applied
Only made the bed itchy and lonesome
For this bed wanted to rot
To be haphazardly thrown in the back of an old pickup truck
The mattress thought it would very much like the stains and oil it could lounge in
In the truck
To be sped down I-89 without buckles and restraints
Jolting merrily
Splintering with every speed bump
To fly
The feathers in the down pillows wanted nothing else but to be airborne once more and remember the taste of wind
The bed thought it would like to land in a half-dead thicket in the darkest and dampest part of the wood
First gone would be the wool blanket
Gnawed on by chipmunks and squirreled away by squirrels and frozen and wrung out in the winter