I dreamed this last night. It's not good fiction, sure, but it was so strange to dream in words that I had to write it down:

I'm standing in the doorway, one shoulder hunched up against the frame, watching you. You are asleep, curled up beneath a thick blanket, breathing easily (I can see the blanket rise and fall in time with your slow breaths). This is where I want to be; here, where you are, where I can keep you safe and keep myself sane. This time, this moment, is forever. And you don't even know, because I can't tell you, how much I feel for you. How the curve of an arm, a breast, the curl of hair across your forehead can be an infinity for me. How I can lose myself in one square inch of your body, escaping only with the greatest effort of will, and feeling like a man saved from drowning who wanted most of all to die under the waves.

I've been dreaming strange things lately. When I wake up, all I can remember is a vague feeling of unease--and occasionally the covers are damp with sweat. I don't usually dream, so it's even more upsetting. Like someone's taken over my brain, gone walking around inside my skull while I'm asleep and vulnerable. Creepy.

I'm listening to NPR, and they've only done one story about anthrax so far. Things must be improving. Incidentally, do you think you could identify the faces of NPR? I failed on them all. *sigh*