Rounding the corner from mind to flesh

In silent dreams we pilot the seams between life and death. The ground is so sure when none is there. Nor does sleep buffer flaws, fears or foes. What we see, unfettered, is clean, pure essence of thought. Whether pain or pleasure, this weighty lumber is dragged to new vista in passive will. What waits there is the thing, the play. Hamlet’s power is that he dreads it so to go there with no return. I, too, long for the foolishness that is waking. I, too, long for the relief when flesh is logic.