It is 9:30 or so. I've got the window wide open and the fan running. In summer, I love to sleep with the white noise of a fan. It it just enough to take the edge off the sounds of the street outside. I live in a second floor apartment so I sleep with the window open and no particular fear of ninjas. I am moments from curling up with my book. It is still and peaceful. The temperature is falling to cool.
I wonder at my friends, where ever they are, wonder what is the last things that pass through there minds as they fall asleep. Do they think at the end of the day that it was "well done"? Do they fret about the morrow? Is their bedroom simply the place they sleep? Or a sacred sanctuary from the world? Do they curl gently against a lover? Do they sprawl wantonly alone? Do they carefully slip in and never cross and invisible line of demarcation, never so alone as when together? Who listens to music? Who watches the television? Who breathes the silence?
As for me, comfortably alone, the fan humming, a book, a tiffany lamp, a journal, and the constant companions of my life, my mind and my imagination. Waiting to dim the light, waiting to find a Muse, to lure me across the veil, to move silently through the dreaming door, to stand at the threshhold of a green and pleasant land. Tonight then, or tomorrow, as you curl up to sleep, think, fleetingly, of me. Look for me in the country of dreams, where Crow waits her wandering son. Goodnight my friend. Dream well. Sent via BlackBerry by AT
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