Sleep has become a thing of ooze and fragments, tentacles I elude like a character in a story by H.P. Lovecraft. Long walk by the lakeshore in stinging spring snow; ice clung in little limbs to a fence where Lake Michigan churned. At home moods rise and fall like the waves, like voices. My arms burn from push-ups; by the time this is all over I’m gonna be buff or dead. “Over” is a concept it’s hard to understand. Time dilates and expands, filling every crevice: empty space is in short supply, or maybe it’s become everywhere. No birds sing.