Insomnia" Perhaps She's A Daytime Sleeper.

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

The Armored Cars Of Dreams, Contrived To Let Us Do So Many A Dangerous Thing.

Think Of The Long Trip Home. Should We Have Stayed Home And Thought Of Here? Where Should We Be Today?

There Are Some People Whom We Envy Not Because They Are Rich Or Handsome Or Successful, Although They May Be All Or Any Of These, But Because Everything They Are Or Do Seems To Be All Of A Piece, So That Even If They Wanted To They Could Not Be Or Do Otherwise.

It Was Cold And Windy, Scarcely The Day To Take A Walk On That Long Beach Everything Was Withdrawn As Far As Possible, Indrawn: The Tide Far Out, The Ocean Shrunken, Seabirds In Ones Or Twos. The Rackety, Icy, Offshore Wind Numbed Our Faces On One Side; Disrupted The Formation Of A Lone Flight Of Canada Geese; And Blew Back The Low, Inaudible Rollers In Upright, Steely Mist.