Well there's a line that I crossed

Time is measured differently in reveries; we can span lifetimes in minutes, relive the same thirty seconds for days at a time, envision moments that have not yet come to pass. Suddenly rules become guidelines, oft ignored, as up demonstrates how it can become down as easily as black is becoming white. Here, where time can be suspended on a whim, nothing is ever out of the realm of possibility. No, nothing. Tadpoles with sharp fins like razors in rows, light reflecting off the blades in a serpentine shimmer as the creatures slither through invisible air-currents. Carried by the same unseen surge, I surf my way through the slipstream of our entanglement in a weaved basket, clutching tightly to any likelihood that you will pluck me out and tuck me to your breast before the leaking wicker vessel is flooded and submerged. There is this, yes, and more, so much more, stockpiled and squirreled away in one of the cognitive hovels nearest my metaphorical heart. "We'll leave the light on for you." Hey, no one said you had to move in right away. Drop by for a spot of tea or a shot of espresso — take a look around, rummage through some of the crates. All of my collector's tendencies are relegated to the incorporeal, non 3-dimensional variety, but what I lack in physical volume, I make up for in the cerebral, and my creations are vast. All you see here are originals, products of hours spent in my ethereal studio, and all the hours were never a waste.