When the day dies down and the bed comforts my silhouette. I can only hear the breathing of the house as I exhale through my mouth. Where I’ve rested my temple across my forearm as a makeshift pillow. I drift off away from the world. My escape of it, my release from it.

I am unable to focus accurately the idea that I should not include you in my next interludes of river rafting down the Mississippi. That the imaginary Low Countries of South Carolina are where your mid-western ways magically fit in.

Only in my dreams do the countries of Italy and the Philippines have bridges that can walk and talk fluently back and forth from shore to shore.

Cultural and social boundaries become useless as I sink heavier into the mattress.

And here I am in a towering city of steel and concrete jungles.

New York to be ephemerally accurate. It’s raining and the steams of the hot sidewalks and roads make this more realistic. I hail a cab only to see…

The ceiling of my room as I catch myself snoring.