dayadhvam
This morning another of those beautiful, terrible dreams that serve as unpleasant reminders that yes, one does want to be loved, even if one keeps busy enough to sublimate this desire during the waking hours. That awful moment of rising into consciousness and feeling the dream-emotion drain from the pores in your mind—you cry, beg the jailor for a moment more of liberty before you are locked back into yourself—thinking of the key, each confirms a prison—and there you are in your bed. Warm flesh, fragile bone. As every morning.
So I rolled over, fell back asleep; but of course after that all I could dream about was war. Now I'm going to the post office, bleary and unshaven at midday, to mail off eighty review copies of the record. Always something happening. Something solitary.
