A Postcard from the Place Where Logs Get Sawed
I’m tired. When I sleep I rest well but my dreams treat me poorly. Down the hall I hear a voice like thunder and all around me whispers like rain. I am dark blue - the color of dreams. Cold not like the air but like under a blanket - cold outside of warmth. Hazy and soothing and numbing. I am a dark blue boy drifting down a darker blue river… and the night shimmers black. My skull lulls above the water and my eyes look lazy toward the stars. The constellations are pretty people at parties bored by their suitors… and I’m too tired to throw my hat in the ring. I see their faces and their beauty keeps me warm… I won’t reach them… but I take solace in knowing them. The air is cold and I am warm and I am snug… and down the river… and sinking. Then far away I hear it… rumbling… and around me… pittering.