dreamsgroundscycle
"Then what are real dreams?"
The bird squeaks like an unoiled bicycle. Something in its eye opens up and whirs, dividing it into coloured slats.
"What? What? Whoop! Don't you have any dreams? Something you want while you're alive?"
"Yes, but it would take a miracle."
"There's a shining thing I want to get back."
"Yes, but I would have to change the world."
"I'd rather not live..."
"I don't have anything like that."