Writing: Stream of Consciousness

Museum of dreams. Enter the caretaker. The guy was 6 feet tall. As big as a mountain and as calm as a snooker cue. "What was that noise coming from the other room" a dog barking. Looking up, looking down, looking left...suddenly the door opened. It was a lighting bolt from the ground tearing the floor in half. "Don't drink that milk" someone shouted even though no milk was in the room at the time. "Why don't you walk over here." the man walked over but nothing happened. The ego I believe that when we get there we should not fear the lose of self but should wonder what we become. The blood filled his lungs. The lights went out. Nothing happened. And when they awake they will see nothing. But that is the closed book of anything that is real. Because that which is seen is in view. The maze of logic goes nowhere and not many people have it. To be honest when it all started I honestly had no idea what it was about. But clearly it is about the missing milk. The laughter was endless. A show of sorts to the outer limits of the roof top and beyond.
He moved a little more and found that it was a repeating pattern of gibberish. Day in and day out a repeating pattern of the same stuff and looked out the window to find a dragon looking in. The dragon said "Another day." The dragon flew away. Only to come back again another the next day. The trick is to stab a man in the back and cut his head off when he is on the floor. The score came in and it was a result of strawberries and cream. A thickness to the overall weight of paper and the look of a man that went over the hilltop to find rest but only to find more hills to climb. Problem after problem after problem until the whole thing is a problem. The tick tock of a clock letting everyone know the repeating pattern can't be escaped from nor investigated to any degree of certainty because when you go to look it has moved so be it.

The life of the plants looking in and out and around and back and forth.