I’m sleepless in bed. What I’m thinking about is everything, yet also nothing. The flip flooping people do, the flip flopping I do. I’m thinking of Paura Palmer and the bitter exes of lifetime engagements. I wonder if they think about me? I wonder if it’s healthy, me always thinking of others. “Am I like her?” “Are they like me?” ping-ponging through nature. It’s funny, moments before it felt like I couldn’t sleep, but now here I am, being drug through. I should probably cross-post dreams here. I’ve come to adore the language of dreams, the solitude of them, the safety and specialness of them. So precious, divine, unimaginably rare. If dreams are my mind sorting through memories, and no one else is me, that means my dreams are unique, one of a kind. Minus the banal ones. I wonder if I can be her. Obviously I’m getting closer but, now that it’s all transitional it makes me wonder. About good, about bad, about who I actually am. I think I still structure my life in mystery, desiring the flame of genuine interest. But if I define the terms of engagememt, wouldn’t that be making an unwinnable game? zzzzzzzzzz?