every night my dreams are vivid and elaborate, but I do not write them down.

images float back up to me over the following days: a map, a highway, a dusty basement with crowded shelves, the look of a hand on a thigh, an intention. very rarely a sound. my recall is almost always visual—I note this almost academically, I wonder if I can adjust this. I recall the outliers of the dream memory of taste.

my mind drifts. my soul a cobweb in a light breeze.

I move between an unexpected contentment and a foreshadowed terror like a bicycle shifting gears, ever adaptive.

these times, like all times, are very strange.