O, What Sustenance is This?

Entering my dreamscape every night garbed in a dark dress with delicate wings of the same beauteous color, she is my savior. And it is my lifeblood, the visionary feast I thrive on through the brutishness of the day-where the ultraviolet brightness of the sun torturously fetters such wonders from appearing on a more concrete realm. But when my two eyes close and the third eye opens, I am able to be with her in a manner only enjoyed by gods. And rightly so, for she is a goddess-an enigma, a fairy princess, a veritable creative fountain, and a very lovely paradox. It has been eons since I held her physical form in my arms in the waking world, and by a blasphemous quirk of time and space that cannot be for eons more. This is my purgatory-hellish separation from my dark angel, my life, my only soul mate. But I know that someday she will come again and that faith is the end all maintenance of my beleaguered, emaciated soul. Until that day the dream world will forever be my reality among the shifting cycles of lifelessness with the sun and true, sublime existence under the moon. Until that day the dream world MUST be my reality among this wretched ebb and flow-for I do not know how otherwise I would survive the wretched loneliness of this cruel cube with the white walls of a corpse-like pallor, the ill image of light dancing upon those walls, and the sole nexus to the outside world in the form of a shimmering screen where dwells an artificial network sundering humanity from its very identity-conjuring a hideous alienation of our own creation.