To Dream

Five episodes of True Blood down. That's almost half of the new season. Oh, shit I have to write. My eyelids are half-closed, my throat dry. I think I'll start writing earlier. I should have realized I'd be too tired to successfully write before bed tonight.

I did write a good portion of that song today, and that ought to count. I shouldn't start cheating on the blog though. (With this entry I'll have surpassed The Passengers blog and finally warranted the creation of an Older Posts link. Hooray!)

The sun is up, and with the darkness has vanished the element of surprise I had hoped to employ as I stalk my bed like a silent and fearless phantom, yawning precociously, an orchid in the sun. I love to sleep. It is one of my favorite things to do. Not to sleep, actually, to dream.

To dream is always to sleep, but to sleep is not always to dream unfortunately. I hope I dream tonight. I hope I dream of meeting her again. She always looks and speaks differently, but every time, I know she's just the same as the last. I can see early reflections of her as ghosts, following closely but with exaggerated movements, their hair streaming out behind them in some long forgotten wind.

Meet me by the lake, under the willow tree, they say, and bring your favorite shirt, because only I can appreciate it, and out there they can all see the stains.