I'm afraid that what I'm doing here is boring, mundane, unimportant, and redundant.
The things I do in the real world are all of those and more.
I want, more than anything, a conversation.
I am more afraid than anything of conversations.
I will offer my straightforward body-ambassador, always, first.
I tell you this over and over as though we actually were
I feel I've woken up in someone else's bed, someone else's house, but the whole world is sleeping. That's what happened in my dream, if yesterday I didn't make it clear. Winter is messing with me. The silence disintegrates any potential for speech. My breath is vestigial.