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Nickolaus A. Pacione

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· The Writings Collected: Vol. Two

· Nickolaus Albert Pacione Delivers: A Library Of Unknown Horrors

· Emanations

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· The Ethereal Gazette: Issue Five

· Quakes and Storms: A Natural Disaster Anthology

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Short Stories
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· The Aftermath: 2 Days of Darkness

· Review: The Tooth Fairy

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Books by Nickolaus A. Pacione
an observation of the raven
By Nickolaus A. Pacione
Posted: Saturday, December 07, 2002
Last edited: Monday, March 10, 2003

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           >> View all 73
From the weary eyes that stand between the hours of the waking and the sleep,  I come to see as they become before the dreams.  The pages as one puts into narration,  the thoughts as they are still sketchy in the surfaced eyes being from dreams as they become before the medicated and the sobering mind.  
     In which is from the eyes of my mind — the sleeping from in the view in the mirrors reflecting from the eyes looking back in the sleeping view.  From the doctors observations and the friends saying that I need to take better care of my health — even as they heed the words that it is there where my health begins to whither.  Madness — that it one describes which I am about the relate,  or perhaps signs of a fatigued thought cycle. From which it would be — as one may never be certain to tell,  that comes from the dreams of one who is haunted as myself.    The dreams that come from the observations of the raven.
          Riddling of the mind as one as myself falls to the sleep of the medicated thoughts before the sickness that dwells in the shadowed fading the health within.  That comes in the sleep where the raven perches at the headboard of the bed,   looking on as the sleep transcending from one phase into another.  From the observations of the raven as one sees in the dream that Edgar Allen Poe writes from the journal pages of another foreshadowed of another writer years to come to follow in the tormented scribes footsteps.  In the graphic details that he disappears and the blood prints that were of the claws of the raven’s perch.  Within the influence of the over the counter medicine — that induces a sleep that one cannot resist,  as it is in the influence between the waking and deceased.
          In the beginning of the dream as the sleep cycles start up,  from it is in the dream that comes into the surface of the cycles dwelling.   Where the shadow of mind being as I wander among the fields which become the dream before me as I stand there before the grave markers in the cold November morning — walking toward the place where the hours wane between night and day.  In the surfaced eyes staring in the sleep as they are looking on — where in the eyes which are seen over the mind as it is through the raven’s point of view.   It is from the dreams as they become — as one sees in the illness dwelling within the November evening that the dreams become unknown.  
        In the eyes that knowing—from the mind as they become in the thoughts that be before the sleeping scribe.   Within the thoughts as they transcend from darkness into the lucid tranquility between the death and dreams; that even with the drugs that induce sleep the dreams can never be brought to the surface of a dark mind before the sleep ends.    Where it stands in the depths of an illness induced sleep — that the dreams become before the mind awakens;  depth of time as it is in the setting of the dreamscape between where one does not know the sense of time when one is asleep — where it is in the waking hours between the sense where one finds themselves resting before the lights of the sun. 
       From I would see this — from observations of time wandering between the waning hours.   That it is from where one becomes from the psyche and mind — the sleep as it is there before the eyes of eons staring back,   from I look on at the sleeping body where it is covered in layers of bed coverings.   In the sickness between the weary eyes that face the unknown — the thoughts that are there before the mirror that are before the thoughts of the unknown.  The screaming surfaces of which — of where becoming before the eyes looking back at one — at oneself before the dreams dwell from the sleep transcending. 
       That thoughts that come between the randomish mind,  where the dwelling in the cold Midwestern deserts of ice — that comes in the hallowed echoing.  The dreams in the sleep that dwell in the stir of unknown echoes; where in the room which I slept — I saw the woman in black walking into the place where the testing been performed.  Confining surfaces in the tombs of a dream as it had met with death and demise.   Where it is there among the pages — the hours which one is told to choose,  the dreams which are in the mind among the evil airs dancing between the health and sick.  I write in the sense of it being where one cannot between to relate — where one cannot begin to see how the shadow of mind becomes before one’s sickened condition.   Where in the dreams that are whispered in the silence of the fields that resembled the land scape creations of Dali,  the wind which whispers this as it is heard to appear — nevermore.
        Beneath the eyes that still remain as I scribe this page — the dreams that stand before the mind as the sleep of time is standing still.   In the sleep that becomes the pages as one stands before the desk in the Victorian-era room of the sleep clinic,  where the journals of a scribe of tortured past would rest — knowing it is in the dream that one sees the pages of the opium-eating scribe.   Beneath the pages as one stares back — the sleep which they are seen — the pages as they are in the mirror where the one sees themselves in the reflection but it is not them but the writer who died years ago;  the one who died in Baltimore,  Maryland.  That comes in the eyes that are seen from the weary mind — nervousness as it is induced by the weariness that comes from the illness and fatigue,  knowing that I must sleep but unable to.
        Pages from dreams as they are written in time — looking as one sees from the past reflecting the future being in the which looking in the reflections of the writer who has the pages in ink as they dried.   Even in the eyes that stare before the sands of time — that comes in the fields of the melting clocks as an image from a painting by Mr. Dali or The Scream by Mr.  Munch.   From dreams as they describe — in which the dwelling transcription and transcending thoughts being in the eyes looking beyond the horrors as they seem from the crumbling below;  where in the dreams one can see the clocks and the metal from the sky melting away from ashes below.   
       Being from thoughts as they draw from dreams inside the mind and sleeping from the darkness below that comes in the pages which sleep comes — the description that comes within the illustration in a scribes sketchbook from which knowing of that becomes the hourglass of souls.  Tired — it comes in the mind that falls from the dead as they sink into the funnel of sands gathering away.   In the words as they be — the words that are described of which as one sees their hands shaking from the nervousness and exhausting thoughts from in the sickness which comes before the dwelling dreams that surface.   That comes among them — the sickness that dwells as the medicated sleep is induced. 
        Deeper inside as it is — written before the tired eyes as they see the unknown before them;  that comes as I would draw from the tired eyes staring before the sleep to come.   Where the mind wanders the mind as it draws from the physical sleep.    That which is roaming in the dreams that stand before one as they sleep — the person in the room looking on as she was clad in black.   Which she sees from the sleep and skies the darkness as it dwells before the shadows that be — the libraries as they pen out the entries of the individual dreams being in the sleep of the one who conceives them.   Even in the mind as it dwells in skies that comes before the sleep as the dreams before the darkness wakes.   From the sleep that comes — in the skies staring back in the observations of the raven before the Sabbath day.
       Perhaps that I am weary from the bronchitis that became of me over  the past month but the dream that is there within the mind as one is home awake in the bed which was placed in the living area as a makeshift resting area.   Within the month of November the dreams as they were there before the mind — the thoughts as they are haunting before the senses as they are written here on a page with a nervous hand and a weary mind.

Web Site: Nightmares & Dreams: The Journal Of,,,,  

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Reviewed by m j hollingshead
excellent read
Reviewed by Richard Raab (Reader)
Well I certainly enjoyed that and not only because you mentioned a raven, heheh..
Reviewed by Terry Vinson
You, sir, have a true talent with words..a foreboding touch that few can master...
keep it up!

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