There once was a man who slept all day. You might say he was a marathon dreamer with back to back excuses for not waking. Or you might say he had been idled by the paralysis of his expectations; every dreamer thinks they’re bulletproof; that ghost can’t see them; that the priest come to bless them. What sort of promise will wake the sleeping man; how many party invitations, how many explanations?
When you bring horn players to wake him, don’t build his hopes into mountains for his failure to tumble down. Let your bears find him in the cave of his inebriation. Let your fish find him freezing in the water of his reserve. Let your forgiveness mice build a nest of warmth around him. If you command your horn players to play a sad song, then the carousel of his affliction will only go round and round.
There once was a boy who watched the man who slept all day. This story is about that boy; child words raining on the temper of his fathers anger; emotions that move like swimming; water dripping on the tongue of his dehydration. We are no less a part of the story, we are the people watching the child who is watching the man who has slept all day; a theater of damp eyes affecting composure.