Dreams have this funny way of building on top of each other like a mountain.
And they don't fall in the predicatable way. No, they just unstack quickly, and you wonder: where have they gone? They took so long climbing onto each other, figuring out functionality, begging, praying, existing... and then they leave so quietly you barely notice that you don't want to be a Hollywood actress anymore or that you don't love the boy you were willing to sell your soul for a few years ago.
How childish, you think.
And go on to wanting something else.
So practicality is a way to check dreams. To check how quickly they may vanish, to secure them in the chain of being. And I think I just found out that you are my practicality.
Is there really anything else to say?
I'm sorry I can't love practicality. I'm too much of a dreamer.
(Then again. Love tends to be an aquired skill nowadays)