I wish it were a simple injury---so simple that you might look down at the injury and tell me my problems were to heal on their own. And you'd mean it. And you'd hold me for a second (because it would never be much more than that, and I had always known so much) and it would comfort me and you would send me to sleep and advise me to dream with the angels. Dream with all the angels in that bright blue infinite painted with pearl clouds sky where they live. That same sky in which I have replaced wonder with doubt. I'd walk down the hall and I'd do as you say and the next day would be a brand new day, after I lay me to rest. A temporary but beautiful rest. A rest of forgetfulness. A rest of passing, of peace, that I could always turn to. 'Stead of this pain.

Oh, fever dream, I feel ill.