I woke up one day to the pecking sound of a bird cutting down my wooden house to make its own nest.
There was sunless daylight, and it wasn’t cold in the Mid-Pole, though locals still shivered from habit,
still complained from habit, and were warlike without a war, mean without fight and dry without humor.
I woke up next to a faraway war, with barnfuls of toilet paper to clean our asses during a crisis,
and shipments of food and arms to keep life while destroying it.
I was dreaming of love and woke up to porn, dreaming of sex just to wake up to dull Instagram posts.
I was dreaming of life, and woke up to invitations to get drunk without alcohol, to skip death and forget tomorrows.
I dreamt of a savage connection of the wild and the human and woke up to a world of egoless egoism.
I went back to sleep and dreamt of licking my dog’s hand so he would free me in the park for a few minutes.
