Sometimes when I'm talking to people on the phone I forget that they have substance and that they actually exist at a concrete point in space-- they have an environment that they must interact with. I just think of them as disassembled, disembodied voices suspended in a fuzzy black void at the other end of the wire-- which itself is becoming ever more and more imaginary.
You have a way of picking me up so that I am floating in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, laughing and gazing down at the birds like ants below the vaporous clouds, but also of plunging me down to the very depths of the sea so that I lie, swaying gently, in the murky sands, nibbled by unseen creatures and watching the eerie lights of bizarre and grotesque fish drift by before they disappear into the gloom.
On the edge of sleep, my bedsheets are made of barbed wire and eider down.
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