House of Rest

     There's one world weirder than the world of the dead, weirder and more familiar: not the world of dreams, not exactly. Dreams are to that world as mammals are to life, life to material things, material things to nothing, poststructuralist literary theory to the whole history and prehistory of literatures and languages of the world: synecdoches, metonymies, mistakes of tiny parts for giant wholes. The world we all know of, have known and returned from, insofar as we are at all, the world that we don't know in the slightest, don't remember visiting, beyond one or two creased souvenir postcards of already fading dreams, inexplicable, is this one world, our almost all-forgotten other half. Sleep.