Sublime

sick on my journey ,

my dreams go wandering

on this withered field

Matsuo Basho, Death Haiku, 1694

Often I never even made it to bed. I’d squat down to pet the cat and wake up on the floor eight hours later, having lost a perfectly good excuse to change my clothes. I’m now told that this is not called “going to sleep” but rather “passing out,” a phrase that carries a distinct hint of judgment.

lassitude