about to write a paper I am dreaming of the feeling of airy unwashed sheets on my dry unwashed skin. that would be magical now, the suspension of reality by way of cotton and mattress spring fancy. I would run outside to reinvigorate myself in the rush of the river. But the river is guarded by a gate and, in this surprise rise of winter on his death bed, in this last frozen breath, the river itself is dozing off. towards a dark, momentary sea, where the waves are pillows. here my head is falling asleep on the horribly white computer screen.