I had the strangest dream... about smokey roses. They were like phantoms, drifting in and out of infinity before my eyes. In my hands they were complete, cool and dewy from just being freshly cut from their familiar and safe haven. Yet, out of my hands they rested in the air, like dancing lace in the figure of roses. Whispy, delicate, entranced in their own delight in and of their beauty. I was shocked at first, seeing them in my hands. No thorns, no bruised veins. I haven't held a rose in my hands for over ten years. The last time I did, it almost killed me. Mmmmm... are my dreams telling me secrets of what's to come or lies of my bewildered heart? Still questions, waiting for answers. Still voices, waiting to sing. Silent thunder calls forth tumultuous roars of pent up explosive emotions. Dreams, all dreams. I hate my dreams.