I was dumbfounded and waiting

In his dreams he always sees the same thing, a scene from a play put on each night for a different audience. He always wakes up in his mother’s lap, feeling her fingers running through his hair. They’d be sitting in a field of flowers, indistinguishable from the haze of his memories. She’d say something, and he’d never quite catch the way her lips moved or curved, and time ticks on.
( beta me kori. )