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We don't remember sleep. We remember being half-asleep, and the underwater way images and impressions flow toward us unbidden, unpredictable, blurry and amorphous. Geometry atrophies, angles worn down to shrouded curves. Perhaps we're dimly aware, suspended in the womb of our thoughts, of an outside, an environment beyond the nonplace we inhabit, the hum of a refrigerator, the flow of passing traffic, the subterranean murmuring of a television left on in the next room, its channel gone off the air and its screen emitting snowed-over, ghostly images of adjacent broadcasts. A green field, blood cells under a microscope, an auto race, a rainforest, a dark alley between warehouses, two bodies pressing together. Over the rooflines, the sky takes on strange hues: rust, steel, a chrome at sunset. The static chatters, increasing in intensity and frequency until we're not sure which is noise, which is signal and code. We're awake, in translucent silence. We don't remember sleep.
“Treat the earth well. It was not given to you by your parents,
it was loaned to you by your children.
We do not inherit the earth from our Ancestors,
we borrow it from our children.â€
—NATIVE AMERICAN PROVERB
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