If you know someone who's terminal, do ask how their nights are. They may really need to talk.
I can only 'sleep' in one position, on my left side, and nights go on forever, watching a window stay dark until I can bear it no longer, when the faintest grey seeps in.
And then the dreams, which are more waking hallucinations; I'm aware of my surroundings, but am also a helpless and hapless audience to things that are sometimes rational, sometimes bizarre, and never comfortable.
I';d talk abut these to Barb, but not being able to speak makes that har. You can't sign them, and once you write them down, the immediacy is gone.
So, a sonnet, to describe the ambience as best I can.
The mad alchemist's formulary,
great Goliath's head;
now springs to life the bestiary,
a summons of the dead.
Wings of feathers and of wax,
too high to touch the sun,
notice-boards devoid of tacks,
announcements held by gum
that tell of meetings from last year
that I have somehow missed,
and there grows a mortal fear
that I cannot resist
the siren-call of fever-dream,
not even knowing what they mean.
Music, of course, from Heart, with These Dreams.
I do try to answer each comment in a timely fashion, but with Internet providers really stretched, I have only about half of the access I once did. Please bear with me!
Thanks to Carol Ashby, Blessed Are The Pure Of Heart is back on Kindle, and will be available in paperback soon.