Swirling dreams in a pale mist;

Part-remembered shades of a distant past,

Creeping ethereally as wandering wraiths,

Drifting on the edge of consciousness,

Hovering on the threshold of perception.

A memory, or just a fantasy?

Following the tenuous subliminal traces

Of the ectoplasmic emanation

Elicits only faintly fleeting echoes

That reverberate with unresolved recognition,

And wriggle elusively away from waking recollection

In the pervasive anonymity of the new day.