through a certain shakiness of sleep

The room is dark and hot, but it is not the room that is hot, for the fans are running full-blast, and I am sweating.

I am once again on that brink of sleep, (as always seems the writing calls) but this time is different. This time I am on that brink because the lack of sleep has taken over and made the decision that I need rest, while the chemical pounding of my heart and my own unbalanced internal clock have determined otherwise.

So it could be called a dream, I guess, but maybe not. We are all four in a car, the four of us sitting hours before watching the telly on that lazy couch, but for some reason we're transported to a parking lot in a car, and we're trying to close all the doors. Three closed. And then there's a deflection where real and unreal meet; the car door begins closing, but then the door of the dark room rushes open and my caretaker enters to grab a pencil or book or whatever it is as I mentally fumble.

I sometimes wonder at the irony of time, and timing, and why things happen when they do.