Continued

Lighter, Darker

Lighter, Darker I ask questions when I should finally be giving some answers. I don't know who I'm directing them to or if I'm directing them to anyone at all. I hear how the child calls out in sleep — for seven years, each year, these dreams are more and more intense, the calling becomes a shout, the shouting more assertive. I think too slowly, I feel faster. A mania for precision, after a few years' experience, stops being tiring, boring, and obtrusive. Shreds of plot come by themselves and arrange themselves in the right order, precisely — not at all the way it was. The device for asking questions, privilege of immaturity, sputters, stops, and falls asleep. I wake up staring at the family screen where one dream-frame has frozen. What wasunacceptable becoming acceptable. 46 ...