"Real" I am real, As I sift the dust in my hands, and watch it settle on the ground. The hard, unyielding ground, that pulses at the beat of my steps. The smells, the lingering senses: I pay tribute to my mortality. My hard, unyielding flesh that rises and falls like the crest of an ocean, parts the air and strikes the bed. And I am flying. The speed, the rush of wind. These are not thoughts of the divine, rather, I am toyed upon by demons of laughter. And my will breaks. And they show me such images, such scenes of lights of deception, that I rage at the feel of myself. In the hard, unyielding ground, I pound my flesh to the floor of my cell, I look at my hands, and the imprint on the tiles, and I yell. I am real? Ian F. Brillembourg