There is the obvious interpretation. There is me, standing in a gauzy white gown, the clock's tick marking my breaths. I am closer to dreams than reality. Always the fear that never the two shall meet.
Then, there is not who I am on this day, right now, but what I do. Writers hesitate, hover, between two distinct states of existence with each phrase that slips free. We seek absolute perfection when trying to recapture the innocent texture of our morning peach's skin against our tongue, a glimmer of realism to quench the reader's palette, yet lay it into the fertile loam of a landscape that exists only in our minds. Is story magic, then, in that unassuming intersection where reality meets dreams, each yielding to the other?