The night before last I had one of those dreams.
A slow train with a view out the window of manatees performing studied ecstatic curvets through the clearest of clear waters.
Pulling up at a seaside town, in a Canada that can't exist, bound by arched weatherboard buildings and a boardwalk with the most filigreed railings this side of the nineteenth century.
For an impossible long, brief moment I can't recall feeling anything approaching such breathtaking joy just as a wall of North Atlantic steel grey water roiled and towered threateningly over the frail crowd and in a fit of pique or dream spite or possibly just maritime identity confusion, decided it liked this whole suspended-in-time thing far better than whatever it had been prior to the moment and clearly resolved to simply hang there, miles high and assured of its place in the universe at last.
I walked the boardwalk with old friends, laughing and often losing them over dunes and in and out of warm, dusty shops made of shimmering tourmaline and azurite.
Until I was left seated, smiling and bland and delighted, on a train bound for the seven o'clock alarm once again.
We can go to sleep.
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