In summer, sleep becomes a new monster. I am in love with the night air, the sounds, the heat - and these distractions keep me awake, humming with joy. My window, wide open. Soft bits of electricity splintering me from sleep. In these evenings, either I dream of nothing, or else I dream of weaving journeys where I wear nothing but cotton and my feet sink low into damp sand. Come morning, my head is elsewhere and it takes hours before I come to root.
There is no opposite of this. The rains of winter are lovely and conscious - giving way to daydreams and musing. But the dripping betweenness of summer evenings has no comparison. I am still waking from it right now.
