Perhaps the body in sleep unburdens its flock of questions, like so many winged sirens, into the sky of dream. As varied as the spectrum of birds from sparrow to phoenix and the unsplit spheres of velvet wrapped geodes, the potentials respond: suitors, thieves, inquisitors, friends. Choose a kettle. Fill it with water. Over the communion of tea, pray for the words to settle your debt.
Or maybe the body in sleep is a wind that knows everything
we've never realized, yet any explanation is a confusion of words, for no
matter how hard we try to recall what was floating to the surface while the
dream was a tight knot inside of us – sentences lose their shape upon our