I never knew till lately that there was so much middle of the night. I dream, I think, I think about dreaming, I dream about thinking. It all happens inside my head. Nothing’s outside my head anymore. I need something solid, three dimensional, but then I’d have to decide what kind of solidity I need and then it’s back to my head again. Should I go outside, but it’s ten below, but it’s two am, but I’m alone. I’m trying to let the words out but they’re stopping in my mouth or really somewhere even short of that. It’s like a swarm of bees in there, giving each other conflicting directions to the flowers.
a wandering dog
to be explained