It is in the night when fever grows to its hairy peak. It infests my dreaming breathing, and prods my mind in its defenseless sleep. My eyelids are painfully fused, as weights dose below eyebrows all throughout the night. I cannot awake, cannot, and yet I am drawn out of deepest dreaming with intermittent persistence.
In this vulnerable state of feverous reverie you can be found weaving through my dreams. This is not life, where preparatory time exists to soothe emotions with artificial blasé. In such crunched slumber, there is room only for unfettered conversation and feeling. For life-altering events which are long forgotten by breakfast.