Fold and squint and cringe. I find myself thinking about non-being or, alternatively, the emotional and physical pain of people I love. To hold these thoughts is unbearable and also unstanchable, like the smooth flow of water over a flat plane in a fountain, from one level to another, but seeming like forever.
I dream of the back yard of my childhood. Animals--wolves and deer and other fast-moving creatures--roam the space, trotting across a trimmed lawn and along the back fence. I watch them from the deck and dart inside when I sense they've noticed me. I am full of a nervous foreboding.