Fell asleep on the couch, in my clothes, last night. I’m too big to move, sleep too soundly to wake.

I almost never remember my dreams. When I do, I almost never like them. Even though last night’s (a blur already fading) weren’t unpleasant, they leave me feeling unsettled and anxious this morning, like I’m leaving something undone, like I need to call and offer an explanation for why I’m not there, but I don’t have anyone’s phone number.

It’s a curious and unpleasantly guilty feeling. A condemnation.

“Wit all þou sal bi halden vile, Quar-sa þou wendes in exile.” — Cursor Mundi