I'm not awake right now. I'm fairly certain I'm typing; my fingers are doing a familiar little dance on the keyboard. A tap tap tap dance. But I'm not awake. Letters appear on the screen, and they march ceaselessly forward in neat little lines on a jarring field of white. Due to nothing more than a desire to form a sentence. Something that resembles a sentence. Sentence fragment. I think they mean something.

In the midst of these proliferating, slender-bodied insects, there may well be meaning. Or none at all. That gap between sentences is a fissure between thoughts. A naked void between conveyances. A rude little pitfall that separates ideas. Can the insects on one side see the insects on the other? Do they speak the same language? Do they think much of rhetorical questions?

The sleep-deprived dream in black and white on painfully bright computer screens.