We are such stuff as dreams are made on...

Sleep is my fair-weather friend. We have our good nights, and our bad.

One night, not long ago, I lay dozing deeply in that delicious world of sleep where not even time can touch you. In my unconsciousness, it felt luxurious. If sleep were tangible, I would hug it.

I woke up in my cool bed, already sitting up. The black bars of the footboard were staring at me in the semi-darkness. The room had a blue haze to it, and it was so quiet that the silence became an it, a thing that came all around me and squeezed me just a little too hard. I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and groped for my robe, for a t-shirt, for anything that would come between me and the silence. I began to hum.

It was somewhere between morning and night, and I could feel dew on the grass when I walked into the backyard. The picnic table looked sad to me, abandoned, and the tire swing swayed slightly in the breeze. I remembered then that I must be cold, so I headed back for the house.

I fed the fish. I watched them swim around and wondered why I never caught them sleeping. I picked up the phone to call someone, and listened to the dial tone instead. It kept me company while I watched the fish. The fish seemed bored.


I laid down on the floor and made snow angels on the carpet. It tickled my skin. My eyelids felt so heavy, but I felt that I shouldn't close them, not yet. I counted the flowers on the ceiling and tried to remember since when there were flowers on the ceiling. The flowers became butterflies, and they flew down to me on the floor. I felt their soft wings fluttering against my skin, and they told me to sleep, so I did.