I had a dream once.
A dream of a dying bird, black as night, eyes heavy with the fog of evening.
That bird, it flew with guileless grace, a massive importance, to the sea. And when it got there, it landed upon a piece of driftwood. As it stretched its wings, it spoke in the voice of a child, profile backlit against the midnight sun:
“I need a cereal.”
It darted its head about, to see if anyone could answer its statement. It then continued:
“I need a cereal that tastes like freshly baked cinnamon bins, piping hot from the oven.”
It then cried a single tear, and flew into the ocean, knowing it will never know such beauty.