Every morning I blink myself away, looking up, at the ceiling, the fan twirling round 'n round, In circles It goes, I slowly sit up In bed, and I look around, from side to side, I think, about the dream from which I was Just dreaming, every time I have these dreams, I think about It as I wake, thinking that I will be able to Immediately write It down In my personal Journal, hoping that I haven't missed my chance to do so.. However, as the minutes tick by, the sound of the clock, echoing In the silence of my room, the dream starts to fade, I think hard, trying to keep the memories of It close by, however, every time It seems to elude me, an wi