I wish time was like it used to be for me-slow and beautiful. As lonely as high school was, the time alone gave me a great inner landscape. I wrote cuttingly. Now I wake up and I'm hard-pressed to get through 2 hours without falling asleep in the living room chair. Posting Maslow's hierarchy of needs on the wall is a decorative option. Time used to be art; I knew something good would come of it. Now I'm mostly concerned with freebasing snatches of sleep.

Last night I dreamed of an ocean, and my canoe scraped shipwrecks as I flew over them in the clearest of water. There were so many.

I wonder how old I'm going to be before I stop running to the window every time I hear a low-flying plane.