ten thousand nights had swept over the body of my mother before i was born and slept my first night, feeling for the first time this dark and mysterious movement of sand trickling over my body. what a funny thing consciousness seems when coming from dreams. how bland it is; we either accept this bland living and attempt to redefine it as necessary, or we, and how hard this is to explain, try to turn our dreams eternal. the suicide of a dreamer is the slow death of a race, and as such the reincarnation of a dreamer into unconscious consciousness is much the same - and both are closer to death than life, regardless of heartbeat or pulsing blood.
so live in your imagination