Paragraphed

Heavy lids slide shut over tired eyes against bright lights. Drama ((lights, camera, action)) plays out on the screen, almost makes one wish that life really was a dream, but where would that leave us when life screws up? A dream within a dream becomes naught but a picture show, leaves us with nightmares all lined up, row after row, stuffed away into an attic to save the addicts who thrive off their power and fear, drinking up all the torment like a rebellious teenager with beer. It intoxicates, slur your words as you fight back, promises spew that mean nothing at all, ask the doctor to prescribe pills called fuckitol, slip carelessly into the [main]stream, say goodbye to your dreams, which were really nothing at all.