Tuesday, August 30, 2005

King of infinite space

Here's the deal: I'm dependant upon noise and moving air to sleep. Last night, I had neither. And the hour, maybe two, of sleep that I did get were haunted by the ghosts of my parents and my brother. And people calling my name. And images of our belongings getting flooded. Or crushed. Or flooded and crushed and looted.

(Since we were only going to close on a new house in a week, we didn't get any insurance for the warehouse space.)

No noise. Except the croak of excited frogs. No air moving anywhere. So I rolled and twisted and moaned and covered the sheets with sweat all night.

I could be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space–were it not that I have bad dreams. Like Hamlet, I'm glad I didn't sleep. I couldn't take the bad dreams.

Right you were, Shakespeare.

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