I walked through the World Trade Center subway station this morning. It felt like I was walking through a cathedral. One side was open to the hole where the towers once stood and a big, wide stairway climbed into the daylight opposite. The concourse was full of commuters, but the only sounds were feet on pavement. It felt reverent like being in church.

In English, we have the word “awakening” to describe the transition from slumber to wakefulness. But we don’t have a single word that describes the inverse — the descent into dreamland — do we?

if there really is anything better than sex, it’s not a donut. not even a 6am-right-out-of-the-fat donut. if it really exists, this better-than-sex thing, it is paying off a nasty climb by blasting down a curvy, descending trail with perfectly banked berms, carving corners and floating through rock gardens until you jam on the brakes for a switchback, hop a log and sprint into the next section and the next until you’re almost as out of breath from the descent as from the climb. go ahead, just _try_ to keep the grin off my face.

I beleive, that when seen plucked from it’s follicle, the nose hair is the most icky-looking body hair. Don’t you?

Nearly pornographic to watch myself delight in the starp, metallic sting of the needle. The light shines solid. I drool in the warm bath as the data flows and my personal relationships dissolve around me. Mainline — another wire junkie hooks up.

Dreamt last night that Mom, Dad, Amy and I carried the Lin-Lyn up a flight of stairs to sail on the lake that was up there. I think Dad was taking most of the weight because my part wasn’t really that heavy. We kept stumbling over SCUBA divers laying flat on their backs on the landings fiddling with their harnesses. I just wanted to tell each of them, “Get out of the way, you moron! We’ve got a sailboat here!”