It was another stressful night in the world of dreams. Nonexistent friends showed up unannounced and dragged me off, in spite of the constant tug of guilt from neglecting imaginary obligations, to meander with them through the impossible terrain of the sleeping mind. At one point we were driving a large sedan convertible wildly through lush, green, hilly pasture land. I opined that we should probably return to the road far below, but no one listened. The too-blue sky above was closer than it should have been, and it felt precarious, as though you might fall into it. Everywhere felt like the edge of a precipice, and I was holding on for my life. When we arrived at the strange ramshackle houses, tall and thin and crowded together, with rusted-out Hudson and Packard cars parked out front for what looked like decades, I whispered under my breath, "O Brother, Where Art Thou?" Someone smiled, having heard, and I took note of this. The next thing I remember I was apologizing for not being more entertaining, but the forgotten party I was addressing was hardly interested, walking away dismissively into the anxious, looming crowding of a concrete cityscape that could have been called Seussian except for the sharps lines and angles. I remember pangs of wanting to be more engaging, less preoccupied, more cool. Mostly, though, I wondered where the car was, and if I had the keys. Somewhere a clock chimed thrice.
Hello, friends. I trust you're well. No?
Later. Love.
