There is nothing mirror-like about staring at the back of my own head on the screen. My hair isn't that color, my skin that texture, the satin shine of my bra strap not that bright. It's not me there, and never will be, because my self-image is comprised of motion, of taste and smell. Whatever lingers in my brain won't be in my eyes at the moment pixils make pictures on the screen. I'm longing for REM; not the vocal stylings of Michael Stipes but the reprieve of the weary. Me. Death on her feet. And yet you're telling me tongue twisters, giving me examples of literary terms I've forgotten in the summer hush. Calling me friend as I place my mind on the rack. Torture, sleep deprivation, is one of the only methods I haven't tried to break my habits. Short of writing everything down, I'm doomed to forget. I tried that today, the rabid ink-to-paper process before the images faded from my eyes. 5:25 am. I didn't go to sleep because of the pointlessness of one hour of rest. No, I take it back. I wasn't planning on going to sleep. After about twenty minutes I dozed, the same way I've been dozing with you during every minute of quiet we encounter. I don't know what you've been doing in that time: napping, thinking, watching me sleep. The latter I don't recommend. I'm not that attractive of a sleeper. This will be hour 39. No great feat. No small victory. My eyes are swelling closed, my fingers and my mind immobile and fumbling. I'm going to collapse into bed soon, inevitably, but not before I'm done savoring the best day I've had in a while and forcing its recollection. There is one thing I've lost. I almost had it, it was almost archived and saved, but it was gone before my thoughts arrived there. It was something you said that I would have quoted later on. I could ask you, because you can remember, memorize, rattle off facts. My better half, right? Filling the areas that I lack. So, yes. 5:25 am. [myhandwriting,messytirednotebooklines] Remember this. Dear Lord, please. The terror of daringly cracked doors. I don't remember putting on my shoes or grabbing my bag- all I knew was flight; run, Claire, with one last desperate glance at mercifully blackened windows. Feet slowed pace on the dark street, but heart never faltering speed. A white shape in the distance assigned a face by technology fished from pocket. Drew together with eager strides and, And that first kiss made me shiver, spine to feet to toes and back. [NOTE]This is where that quote would go. I'll piece it back together eventually.[/NOTE] The next part is all lock-and-key history. After so much quiet, so many whispered declarations, the giddy peals were a shock and release. Knee-to-knee Navajo-style, we followed a talk-laugh-collapse-kiss ritual, and it was here I got lost again. [NOTE]I don't remember what I meant by "lost." Too early, too scattered.[/NOTE] Once again we fogged glasses and glazed eyes. Etc. The moisture pooled and the temperature dropped, the windchill of midsummer passing. But we stayed warm, or tried. And suddenly watches were checked and bags were packed. Goodbyes exchanged until later. My walk down the hill was exactly the same as the other ones. Bag over fence, leg over fence, mind over fence. Real fences and metaphorical. [/myhandwriting,messytirednotebooklines] I didn't finish. I fell asleep instead. Excuses, excuses. It's a load of crap, but that's not what counts. What counts is that it happened, and now I will remember. Sleep. Sleep. Yes. Now.