Cycle 5: Strange Bedfellows

You sleep too much.

If you feel sleepy, sleep!

Maybe you have a sleep disorder.

In the Stone Age people got eleven hours of sleep every night.

The fifth deadly sin.

Sometimes I think sleep gives me more pleasure than sex.

One sleeps alone.















Siestas are part of my culture.

Forced to nap in the afternoon as a child, I used to hate naps. (Believe It . . . or Not!)

You don’t want to cross me before my nap.

Because the living room has four west windows, it’s the best place for an afternoon nap.

What do I look like when I’m sleeping?

My favorite way to listen to music is while falling asleep. (I can sleep even to Bartók or The Rite of Spring.)

After a nap, a new day.















I wish I had written Sei Shōnagon’s Pillow Book.

Why are pillow fights never as fun as one imagines?

The term “cervical pillow” always brings to mind female genitalia.

Drool stains on old pillows.

I’m usually too sleepy for pillow talk at night, but I can be very chatty in the morning.

My pillow – tragicomic stage of all my dreams.

Dreams escape me.















As soon as my credulously incredulous dayeyes shut, somewhere a cycloptic dreameye flies open, recreating the flowing landscape every time it blinks.

Didn’t dream of N like I was hoping to. Instead dreamt I had to fold a mountain of laundry because someone swapped places with me at the dance wedding.

Sleeping goats in glass cases like shadowboxes for giant butterflies.

If you cut your left hand off, you’re also cutting off your mind’s left hand.

An android is fucking me. It doesn’t feel the same because I know he is a machine. I bottom for seven days, then we switch.

You’re having sex with two people, but they have many bodies, so they’re really seven, seventeen, seventy-seven . . .

From certain tricky angles the edges between dream and reality blur suddenly to vanishing.








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