Dreams of the Lazy Samurai

Tsunetomo Yamamoto was fond of sleep. He confessed he wished to sleep away the remainder of his life, only allowing his legs to do as much work as was absolutely necessary. His dreams, coated in bloodstains, were the silences left by gods who had abandoned him. None remained. His was a mad and useless death.

And I have been dreaming entire lives for two nights. It will likely continue for five more.

I was hollow this morning. It was a nothingness. And this reminded me to be sad again about love.

Bright blue light comes into the bus, flickering behind the leaves of passing trees. I have forgotten where I am going. That I am meant to have joy in this moment.

That I may burst simply from waiting to see you.

There are no forks in path. Perhaps in a path, but not in "path." It is solitary, singular, unicursal.

And I realized today that there are seventy-two Japanese citizens all learning to the tone of my voice, growing accustomed to my cadences, and I shall either be mindful, or else cursed with their song.