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rejectomorphTuesday afternoon turned sunny, as expected, presaging the upcoming warm spell. Dozing in the brightness was fitful, but once night fell I slipped into deeper slumber and found blessed oblivion for a while. Once again I slept long enough that dinner was delayed until long after midnight, which suited me fine. Eating should be done in darkness anyway, whenever possible. After that I brewed a hot tisane and indulged in repeated listening to Harry Connick Jr.'s deeply moody rendition of Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer's already quite moody "This Time the Dream's On Me."
I have concluded that this piece should be declared the anthem of all who fantasize about what can never be. And since this is my fantasy, I'm making the declaration. And then I'm going to go to sleep and hope to dream about the fantasy coming true, even though I'll never remember it when I wake up. Maybe I'll never wake up, and the dream will, effectively, never end.
I have concluded that this piece should be declared the anthem of all who fantasize about what can never be. And since this is my fantasy, I'm making the declaration. And then I'm going to go to sleep and hope to dream about the fantasy coming true, even though I'll never remember it when I wake up. Maybe I'll never wake up, and the dream will, effectively, never end.
