fragments
The last thing in my dream before I woke up, four minutes ahead of the alarm: a place padded with cotton cloth with flames on it; a place where someone needs to go to rescue someone else, a place “so quiet, even the mimes are muted.” A prison for the mimes.
More-or-less unrelated: going through my head right now, and all morning, is Peter Mulvey’s “On the Way Up.”
The cumulative effect of this: strange, unsettled, want to go to the ocean and sing to the waves. I wonder what new storm is around the corner – there is one – and whether this storm will inspire or blight.