8.28

I haven't seen anything with wonder in my heart for months. Two nights ago, while a cloud rolled over the mountain, the full moon did its best to cut through the shroud. Trees fell away into shallower and shallower gradations of deepest blue, and I finally looked up. Tonight, again, I saw something that stopped me dead. Far away beyond the closest ridge, a cloud caught the shallowing sun and scattered its light, a deep red smear on the smooth gradient of the sunset, hiding between hilltops on a distant horizon. I know the person I was walking with didn't know what was going in my head, but I can try to tell you.
I haven't slept like I know I should for two months. I haven't dreamed at all in that time. I woke up earlier than I wanted to hold people accountable. I fell asleep later because there was always more to do. And the last four nights running, I've been getting more than six and a half hours. I've been taking eight and a half. I've been dreaming. I've been alive.

Goodbye. I'm going to sleep, now.

8.12

What's the smell of the world when you like somebody? What's the taste of food when you are loved? Do colors shift when you kiss for keeps? Or would we know these things, weak as we are, always in love (whether we know or no)?
For who among us is strong enough to look away when new love is nearby? Who among us is strong enough to open his eyes when he is kissed?
Nobody.

8.9

Dream 9 August 2018 4:58am

At camp. A camper asks me a question. He has been interrupting me all night. I have been up front talking and I am sick and tired of it. I decide now is the moment. Sure, interrupt. You asked a question about how stories get told. You are not interested in the answer. I am done with your interruptions. I am going to win this one.
"First," I say, "I wish you would stop interrupting me. Second, the shape of stories is often determined by what happens in the story. Third,—"
"But what about in the story you just told?"
"First, I wish you would stop interrupting me," I patiently reply. "Second, the shape of stories is often determined by what happens in the—"
"That's what you said before."
"First," I say, holding back bitterness and victory, "I wish you would stop interrupting me. Second, the shape of—"
"Ugh!"
There are a hundred people in the audience whose time he's wasting and I have decided to waste it.
"First, I wish you would stop—"
"Can you just go on!? I get it."
"First, I wish you would stop—"
"Oh my gosh, quit it!"
Pause.
"First, I—"
"Stop it!"
"First, I wish you would stop interrupting me. Second, the shape of stories is often determined by the content of the story. Third, I don't remember your original question at this point and I get neither do you, but the original question was never important to you in the first place. It was just a way for you to project power by interrupting me—"
"Why are you doing this?"
There's a long pause. Everyone is tense because by now they know exactly what will happen, and my revenge is so unbelievably sweet. This annoying half-baked potato has decided he can control the flow of my dialogue for the last five minutes. He has decided that his asides and commentary are more important than the time and enjoyment of the other few hundred people in the audience. He is wrong and they know it. So I, stopping just one moment this time to let the lesson sink in, without waiting too long for him to feel pleased or revenged in any way, give him exactly what he wanted at first and desperately did not expect the shape of: control.
"First,—"
He screams. I've won.

5:15am