Dream a little scream for you

I will be able to tell my wake from my sleep for not much longer. Each day, each hour, I have small flashes of fictional events, occurrences that seem as clear as day but when reality dawns only as near as night. And currently while routine eludes me and sleep is grasped at any waking moment, my dreams are my life and my life is a dream. All edges blurred. If life itself were more stable and reliable I would have a chance of discerning the daylight, but life is overshadowed, outweighed by the piles of profundity and the mass of mundanity mounting on either side of the scales of consciousness, unbalancing them. Life should be boring. I long for boredom. I crave it like the nicotine I don't smoke. I spend my daytime in the crazyland of circustown, then go to sleep and dream of queuing. Why do I waste time with these pedestrian incidentals? Dreams should be for flying and dying, not waiting in line or taking a tube. I don't know, since the opiates stopped, the night-time trips aren't what they used to be.