Atlas Hands, Benjamin Francis Leftwich.

Warmth. The very physical manifestation of it. Like chocolate melting in my mouth. Except this wasn't my mouth. It was my mind. It was like melting into a puddle of nothingness. It was just so

warm.

Hues of orange streaked across the sky. The sky seemed to have forgotten to be blue. My eyes began to defocus and everything was a confusion of orange and

orange.

The scene changes to a moonlight night. A full moon hung lopsided in the sky. It looked like a defiant little child, not wanting to conform. Not wanting to obey. A single streetlamp illuminated a deserted garden. Where are the children now? They are asleep. I am not. Sometimes, I get caught in a never ending loop of wanting sleep but being gripped by a familiar

insomnia.

Soft guitar plays in the background, but I eventually sense an alien intrusion in my ears. Or is it just my mind? Probably both. I read a word in some book somewhere

'sanity'.

I don't suppose that makes any sense to me. There is no place for sanity here. There is only confusion.  Orange, gooey confusion. It's a welcome change. I lie back down, eyes closed, trying to close my head. It doesn't work. I wonder what it's like to

dream.

I did dream that night. The first dream that I wanted to remember. The first memorable dream in a long, long time. Two people sitting on a bench in the middle of nowhere. Unconsciously swinging their legs back and forth. Consciously looking into each others eyes. Each others souls. That place seemed oddly familiar. It seemed

warm.