bright lights.

She was a dream girl. She followed the amygdala caged in her white skulled mind like a road map. Since she was a starry eyed child with little fingers dancing through ringlet hair, she dreamt in a bed of glitter. She had visions of mazes with brick walls and dandelions in the corners, and what was so appealing to clams about those small holes in the muddy sand at the ocean down the road. As she grew older, her eyes grew more dull, and her fingers grew out of her skin and her ringlets grew into waves. Her mind changed. She dreamt of being trapped in the circle of yellow cascading out of streetlights until the sun woke up, and she was free. She dreamt of scary men with countdown watches sitting in bus stations, waiting for something that was nothing to her, but was anything for them. She dreamt instructions. Run down that empty, abandoned road until you reach desolate spots where civilization cannot branch out and you can barely feel your feet skidding across the pavement, because all you can feel is your being taking the shape of a lion. This, is the spot where magic lives. Go there. Escapism, and the owl that was perched in the ragged branches of the tree that situated itself in her childhood friend's backyard. He flapped his wings in the sky and wore glasses in fantasies and story books. This is where wisdom lives. Go there. The eyes of young girls and teenage boys, back when they both contained stars, and damsels painted their nails pink. Before they wore lipstick and stopped wearing dresses. When kisses were like cash in a barter economy. This is where love lives. Go there, and fill your tear ducts with what they are selling for free. You need to cry the way you used to. When your eyes were still filled with stars. Give your fingers a rest, and let them shrink back into soft skin cages. Let them be comfortable in flesh blankets and let them sleep. You need to go down to the ocean that inspired you to be so interested in clams and driftwood and beach glass that displayed your reflection and reconstruct your hair. Create brunette springs with salt water instead of electronics and live in the trees. Use your newly reborn fingers to make tidal waves and dream. This is your amygdala speaking, Sleeping Beauty. Use me as your road map. I will guide you through brick wall mazes with dandelion flowers in the corners to the coast that you've forgotten. I'll be the blinders on the side of your eyes, distracting you with solid images of what's ahead from the signs on the sidelines stating that Nevada is only six dreams to your left. There are no oceans there. Only deserts of dry grains of sand that will whisper devil's delusions into your mind. Las Vegas is only bright lights. The future is soft and full of glitter coating your bed.