He laid there, and thought about his dream; thought of the fear and excitement that came from stealing cigarettes from a purse. And that poor, lonely, 8 foot man in a shopping mall, who wanted nothing more than to be loved and held - burned out from years of hard drug overuse; a man with the mind of a child, who the security guards dragged away sobbing. He thought about the way her face looked when she saw the milky way above, spinning in an unrealistically glorious fashion, free the fetters of atmosphere. And why did she brake and stop the vehicle so abruptly in the highway's center, oblivious to traffic and paying heed only to the allure of deep conversation? The stars, however, were gone from that star-gazing spot on the hill, suffocated by the suppressive lights from a dozen new buildings that had grown like weeds under the auspice of progress.

Lying there longer, he thought about sex. He thought about rain beginning to beat against the window with increasing tempo. Fascinating ideas rose and fell, borne upon a sea of restless breathing; hormone crested waves lapped at his feet and they could not stay still. "Yes," he thought, "I think we might enjoy such-and-so by quite an acre." Translations into speech were crude and half-hearted, and given in the attitude of some kid whose hand is held to the paper to write large, loopy cursive letters when they wish only for the comfort of the playground. He put these ideas carefully into a battered cardboard box, upon which was written, "do not open until some arbitrary, pleasurable time."

The pillows were frustratingly devoid of cold spots for his head, and the blankets were stifling and tangled. He thought about love, and the rain against the window which had settled into a featureless, ongoing buzz. Rain seemed pointless unless one was walking in it. Even so, it was merely a whimsical pasttime unless two were walking in it - then, it became a prelude. The song, orchestrated to accomodate the moment, began with a flourish of the right hand to the idea of trading comfort for company. Soon, there were chords for jumping in puddles, for holding hands, for wet kisses and smiles. The left hand, whose participation in this performance had steadily increasing, leapt in to a crescendo of warm soup and dry clothes. To the fervent pedaling and digital gyration of some conceptual composer, they slid between the sheets to warm one another, and managed to stay awake for a charming "da capo al fine." This symphony was not so simple as to have but one movement. Notes of memories were added daily to sheet music played by instruments of varying voice and emotion. Truly, for a moment, he thought he heard realized in the rain an ephemeral love song, the epitome of hope come to bear; two intertwined souls crying in want to be a singularity.

The rain began to slow, and he thought about dying. He had told her, "you aren't going to die," and indeed he believed it of himself on some level. What would life be like when he couldn't say it anymore; when the ferris wheel of life stopped him at the top, and he knew that the view and ride were ticking themselves apart, one cart at a time? Love had revealed itself to him in passing, like some beautiful woman in a little black dress with whom he had held sustained eye contact to the point of discomfort (in a hallway where only they walked). Perhaps there was nothing recountable there, but he could, regardless, feel a sort of pressure, a static charge drawing him to the idea that something important had happened. Death lacked that sense of palpability. He did not particularly fear it, but it was certainly, as noted in that immortal soliloquy, the undiscovered country; a gnawing question, a word on the tip of the tongue.

Birds were singing how-do-you-fares. He thought about the contrast between his lifestyle and means. "Ah," he thought, "I will become an excellent cook of inexpensive fare, the embodiment of the frugal gourmet" (and here he remembered that old man and his show). He could invent something remarkable, that would set him for the rest of his days. Alas, that seemed more the dream of aunts, uncles, and other such overly-optimistic distant relations (in mind, if not in gene or geography). The very thought of subsistence was boring - he hoped it would encourage him to sleep, but to no avail. He began to think that thought was rather an inconvenience, and he would rather doze. He thought about love some more, wishing the woman in the black dress were not mute, or that he were a telepath. And what would Love be thinking about, anyway? He felt compassion for Love; he imagined she was in constant fear of untimely death, the poor thing. It must be a dreadful pain for people to call her name when she wasn't there, and repeat it needlessly when she was in the room. It was as if they thought she needed some sort of constant nagging to find her way from place to place; it was as if they thought she was blind. That's what drove love to the edge of insanity - it wasn't that she couldn't see, it was that people were constantly tripping over one another, and falling into her. How could she be expected to have balance, or grace? Why couldn't they understand?

At the vision of an exceedingly perturbed, irritable, and unequivocally misinterpreted Love, he began to laugh to himself in his bed. Sleep, scoffing at such heresy, walked down the block and around the corner, gone about whatever duties he undertakes while we are awake. Even after a meager two hours of battle with that fickle denizen of the night, he did not feel tired. Ah, blessed day, when drudgery and pasttime kept him safe from overextended thought.