From the sick bed

It's all laughs under here, under these covers,
underwater,
where my funny dreams feel real on waking,
where my funny actions feel like dreams,
where the buzz of the humidifier drowns the neighbors,
where I sweat enough to keep from needing to get up to use the bathroom,
where starting to do anything remotely productive leads to fear of terrible mess-ups and immediate work stoppage,
where standing on the table to change the kitchen lightbulbs feels like some serious living on the edge,
where the entire first season of Battlestar Galactica passes before my fuzzy eyes, and it's almost like I'm one of them, their problems are so much more immediate, more worthy, and their passions so unnecessarily complicated but more satisfying for it.

I slept eighteen hours from around midnight on Monday to 5:40 pm on Tuesday. Last night only twelve, but still, I think I'm undergoing some sort of -- dozing brain can't find the word for it -- metamorphosis.

It might just be a part of spring. Last night, I thought, "I'm going to miss this winter." That's the cold talking, but it's still a little true. In one of my dreams, they already have Halloween on display -- skipping ahead two seasons. I hope that was just a dream.