Apologies for my absence. Four weeks ago, my bed unexpectedly devoured me.
I had just made a potent chess move against the Bishop—accidentally, I admit, but one that silenced the Ouija planchette enough for me to sleep—and I slumped into bed still wearing my necktie.
Swirling tiredness engulfed me after weeks of thwarted effort. I had failed to locate the indescribable cat. I had repeatedly attempted meaningful contact with June, the ghost who shares my bedroom, while fearing she’d withdrawn from my mercurial emotions.
I had hurled my heart and hopes directly at the void, hoping they would flower out and pollinate the gloom. But there is a certain depth of neediness—a spiral in a spiral—that negates whatever goodness it inexorably funnels.
Loneliness. Depression. Self-doubt and desperation. How I pined for the remedy and fantasy of sleep!
I remember a soothing dizziness, a bottomless and widening and endless relaxation. My mattress softly opened in a vulviform embrace…