now, my hoodie was on the floor on the far side of the bed, which means i would have rolled over a bunch of times, grabbed around through books and cds and the WhatNot that is around my bed and pulled it up over me, all the while re-cocooning myself in my down comforter, two duvet covers (the bunnies and the best friend playset), and two sheets.

this is by far the freakiest way i have woken up in a long long time. i have no memory of pulling anything around me during the night except for the down comforter, which i pulled over me, as usual, as i fell asleep. i don't remember being particularly cold last night when i snuggled up with monk monk and listened to david sedaris reading from his books.

i do remember the faintest bit of a dream, of expansive stretches of snow, egon schiele trees, even egon schiele eyes. my lips dry and hurting. alone there, like the main character at the end of "the map of the human heart". arctic alone. i could hear the wind, but i couldn't feel my body, save for the burning skin on my face, the screaming lines of my lips.

you see, i am afraid of the snow.

so, perhaps that explains the massive covering i made for myself in the night.

i've had a hard time focusing my eyes. i am unsure if this is because i slept so little, a mere 3-4 hours, or because i didn't have any coffee upon getting up for work, or both. my brother and i spent hours talking last night about the war. he is deeply concerned, and thoughtfully afraid. i tried as hard as i could to comfort him, to say things that might give him reason to feel something other than frustrated, unnerved, sorrowful tension. but i won�t lie to him, and this whole situation is so complicated that even if one doesn�t feel fear, they have to at least feel powerless. so i listened, and it wasn�t even close to enough.

the shivering continues at intervals. i'm still at my computer in my room in silence, waking up, reading about bombs.

the house felt like a fish tank, the world still dark outside even though it was 7am. i made myself a sandwich for lunch and in my sleep and hunger immediately forgot what it was for, eating it like a somnambulist, barely noticing.

driving to work. i could see the sun through cracks in the grey blue pavement of the sky. all of a sudden it's a whole different air now, sky now, sun now. everything is half-asleep, everything is waking up covered in hundreds of layers. fog like soot in my eyes. morning with ashes and apple juice colored hillsides. all the while, behind my left ear, there is magnificent peaches and pink and purple hues from the cracked pavement sky. but not magnificent in a beautiful way or in an elegant way, magnificent in a garish, gaudy, showy, ugly maxfield parish way. unreal, painted on, all posed beauty. give me my cracked pavement sky, the dark mirror puddles on the tops of buildings that can been seen from lonely office windows, reflecting the ocean-like grey back up to the emptiness there.

it�s 315 and i�m still shivering. i twist plastic coated paper clips instead of doing my work, unable to concentrate on anything but the disembodied voice of obsession coming from my stereo, the same poem over and over again. like sleepwalking steps back and forth across a hopscotch board where the chalk is blurred by the slippered feet. there is an empty burning in my stomach, but it�s the only thing keeping me awake, save for the pressure of my teeth setting hard against one another. i can feel my face is twisted up, frowning or breaking or something, but i am not unhappy. i am not even here. i am still in that dark fishbowl, sitting at my computer, wiping the sleep from my eyes.