Lines of documents lay dusted with soot, lining the bottom of the wishing well. When I was younger there was never anything expendable to be thrown in. Wishes are heavy and expensive, so dreams became more of a priority, as they were cheaper and less likely to surface.

I remember being a boy of 9, all but innocent and hopeful; egg headed and tragic avoiding all instances of reality, technology, and society. Radios always sang songs of desperation, echo-ing an internal monologue that never seemed to pause. It was suggested by a therapist after a suicide attempt, to write down the conversation and throw them into the well. I could never have caught up with the slur and fast forward essay like ramblings, so whatever streams I could catch I wrote as poetry.

"Call it, the dreaming well."
"If they're in the well, they're about as productive as sleeping. Maybe I should call it the sleeping well." I responded.
Frustrated and irritated by another come back, my therapist gave in.
"I want you to write to copies, and hand me one every time you decide to throw one in. Do you think you can do this?"
I nodded.
On lined paper torn out of a pad, I saw the heading, "Jay Despers and The Sleeping Well."