But here's a snug little home for these poor words on FitC.
Today, the sensation of sleeping while someone else is speaking.
Do you know it? It’s a half-dream, the sheets and pillows speaking, the voices weaving into the unconscious, becoinge part of the dream, part of the movements of the mind. The voices speaking aren’t real, and yet they are, but you, you deep dreamer, cannot tell the difference.
It is your mother’s voice coming from the lips of painted, narrow boat. The next door neighbor's shout becomes the thing of wings, bright and fearsome. The television droning now a companion in lucid wanderings. The voices that are heard not as yourself, but as a sleeper. I hear them often; they drift under doors to me, the sound of footsteps, of chatter, of laughter. When they come I stir, just a bit, not knowing who they belong to or where they come from. Wanting them to be silent. Sleep, always sleep, is the final solution to the girl you see in this bed.
The day rose, foggy, grey, with little difference between night and dawn. We were cold; the sheeps' moss bedding wasn’t fully dried. The still-green vines were hollow with water and absorbed the moist air under my stiff body. Never sleep on damp moss. It’s not as comfortable as it looks. The night before we grabbed it in sharp handfuls, hung it over the fire to dry out, smoke, but it wasn't hung long enough before our tired bodies claimed the moss for bedding.
I moan. A pert voice responds.
"Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey!"
To be continued?
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