Of late he has been having dreams that wake him bathed in
anxious dew. Yet comfort, strangely, comes from these odd
glimpses to what might have been, ways ignored or seen
too late, people mistrusted, friends laid adrift. So much more
real, this dreamscape, than the recurring rumble of his toothached life.
One cable at a time he tries to disentangle from the jumble of
wires that tug and wind; into rival connections he plugs in
too much, fearing yet craving overload. He stalls, he tosses, seeks
to find the sweet cool spot on his pillow to finish his dream,
to perish the thought.