Filmstrip rides on seven hundred and twenty sprock holes. 

Dusty yellow streets where she waited.  

Four days and nights of sweetest dreams.

Woken up by fences in a different world.Dying to rest, dying to hold and dying to dream again,

But not dying itself.

So much red paint along the road.

Red paint on white colored cotton, slowly tearing apart.

Dreams are meant to be fallen for…

with no tangability…