joyrider

i am not used to cold places, and this is a cold place. my fingers get stiff, and i push my toes under my cat or the dog when they fall asleep under my desk. the last of the leaves have come down, and the st bernard has pushed together a nest under the deck. i don't hear birds in the morning, and the afternoons are more grey than golden.

i'm putting off sleep. i lie there for hours sometimes, in and out of some fragmented serial sex dream i am sure i remember wrong - filling in details with whatever fits. i like the quiet, i like the drifting-up feeling, and i like untying the knot in my brain and letting all my senses go.