the sleep pattern letter

sitting here, i find myself imagining you asleep. it's probably more than a little odd, but normalcy bores me. what i'm conjuring is the image of you, laying there, eyes just barely closed, fingers holding the covers up to your neck. and behind the eyes, all manner of fantastical things are taking place. maybe you're dancing with bears in the woods. maybe you're running from a crazed person though dark city streets. maybe you're laughing in a large green room filled with every character that every sprang to life in a fellini film. maybe you're dreaming of other things. scarier things. chaotic things. or maybe it's the other way and in the dream you're sighing pleasure out. i imagine all of these in turn, taking into scope the way you turn your body in the bed depending on the storyline. the way the plot determines your breathing rate. the way the temperature in the room invades your dream.

perhaps, when you wake, you'll find you've thrown the covers from the bed. perhaps you've wrapped them around yourself in such a way that you have to take a moment to untangle them before you climb outwards. perhaps there's hardly any making to do of the bed because you've found some certain groove in your sleep pattern that allows you spend the entire night without any outward motion.

in some of my imaginings you are tossing and turning side over side, trying to find just the right place to lay, just the right arrangement of legs and arms and sheets. sometimes it's happening more like a strange dream train carrying on and you're just there, riding on and on, into the unknown. maybe you're a lucid dreamer. maybe you only dream in black and white. maybe you dream in french.

i think of the people passing through in your dreams, the remnants of people you've known, tidbits of old friends. but, their faces are rearranged, bent outwards and they've taken on the look of some other unknown entity. they've become strangers only recognizable to you in the smallest of ways, the slightest of senses. i imagine for a moment, that you dream faceless dreams full of oddball characters with no discernible facial features. i think of you waking briefly for a glass of water or a trip to the restroom and you're thinking along the way how much you'd like to return to the dream you were having when you find your way back to bed.

i imagine, for a second, that you are dreaming about me. i imagine that you are dreaming about standing in the ocean. i imagine that you are dreaming about a gliding over the hills in an old model ford through the california wine country. i imagine all manner of occurrences, all types of alchemical events, just shifting and turning, all beneath the slim surface of your eyelids.

of course, i probably shouldn't be telling you any of this. i should probably be sleeping myself. i'm not even sure why this happened. i have the strangest mind.

soon to sleep and more,

robert

2008-03-13 | 3:05 p.m.
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