The fact she is now absent her own dreams determines that degree to which Brother Skunk understands she appreciates hearing the relating of his own. But still too knowing how tired she is from today, and listening to the rasp of her every exhalation as it arrives in its cycle, he opts on this occasion at whatever hour of the morning not to wake her.
Being too important to lose, however, he feels he must still speak through this particular dream as aide memoire, to fix it for himself at least to some degree of permanence, and doing so in something less than a whisper; he forms the words from little more than the rhythmic sound of his own breath, his lips’ separation, and the dry movement of his tongue between.
Skunk: I dr-
attempting again to swallow
Skunk: I dreamt I was writing letters to old friends, from from, I think starting now, with friends now, and working my way back, letter after letter after letter, and then eventually I came to one friend, who eh, he was, he had been my best friend at primary school, and about, from when I was
having to focus
Skunk: from when I was... maybe eight? and about halfway down, when I was writing, about halfway down the page, I suddenly remembered he was dead, dead in real life, he’d died... he’d killed himself a number of years ago, but in the dream I just kept on writing in the letter to say “I’m so sorry I forgot, I’m so sorry” and then it dawned on me there would actually come a day where this really would actually... become a a a... a not infrequent occurrence, where time and again I would find myself thinking of friends or people I’d known as if they were still alive, only to then remember that they were not.
He listens as each breath and its subsequent exits her body, unaware for now she will never number among those, her own eventual identity as ghost to be for him so absolutely fixed he will not ever even once mistake her for otherwise, her and too that child the conception of whom neither of them could in this moment possibly entertain.
His grief is already something to be experienced at one remove.
On the edge of sleep himself he comes suddenly awake, aware of her hand moving up and onto her stomach, the nails raking across and down into her flesh, creating in their wake an awful sound impossible while conscious, like the high and abrasive whine of grinding teeth, haunted as she is by that tiny ghost of her own making.
Brother Skunk reaches over to gather her vicious clawing fingers into his, to lie on awake wondering about that time, those few friends he has, and how it will be when waiting upon their collective spirit to tap upon his shoulder, or take his hand, to time and again remind him
Being too important to lose, however, he feels he must still speak through this particular dream as aide memoire, to fix it for himself at least to some degree of permanence, and doing so in something less than a whisper; he forms the words from little more than the rhythmic sound of his own breath, his lips’ separation, and the dry movement of his tongue between.
Skunk: I dr-
attempting again to swallow
Skunk: I dreamt I was writing letters to old friends, from from, I think starting now, with friends now, and working my way back, letter after letter after letter, and then eventually I came to one friend, who eh, he was, he had been my best friend at primary school, and about, from when I was
having to focus
Skunk: from when I was... maybe eight? and about halfway down, when I was writing, about halfway down the page, I suddenly remembered he was dead, dead in real life, he’d died... he’d killed himself a number of years ago, but in the dream I just kept on writing in the letter to say “I’m so sorry I forgot, I’m so sorry” and then it dawned on me there would actually come a day where this really would actually... become a a a... a not infrequent occurrence, where time and again I would find myself thinking of friends or people I’d known as if they were still alive, only to then remember that they were not.
He listens as each breath and its subsequent exits her body, unaware for now she will never number among those, her own eventual identity as ghost to be for him so absolutely fixed he will not ever even once mistake her for otherwise, her and too that child the conception of whom neither of them could in this moment possibly entertain.
His grief is already something to be experienced at one remove.
On the edge of sleep himself he comes suddenly awake, aware of her hand moving up and onto her stomach, the nails raking across and down into her flesh, creating in their wake an awful sound impossible while conscious, like the high and abrasive whine of grinding teeth, haunted as she is by that tiny ghost of her own making.
Brother Skunk reaches over to gather her vicious clawing fingers into his, to lie on awake wondering about that time, those few friends he has, and how it will be when waiting upon their collective spirit to tap upon his shoulder, or take his hand, to time and again remind him
cogs (ensemble): We are not.
while he himself still was.
