August 9, 2000: Postcards of unclaimed luggage

My eyes barely clear, my heart the same—journeys taken and somehow I’m in it for the ride. The hills, so large—the wind disappears. Then I’m let go, told to fly…landing on my feet in an upward position, only to ask, “Who am I pretending to be?” Like a drunken man, I’ve no idea of when I went to bed. I spent my dreams re-arranging rocks. This dream, a series…I fear a visitor coming to the office—they walk in, close the door and quickly run away. My body starts to decay. I’ve said it before, death brings no fear—getting there is what frightens me.