I will be away. I will be here: In a dream.

I can’t take my eyes off of you, though I know your beauty destroys me. Your virtual presence presses me into this page where I can only exist as an abstraction, words on a page, with no context to frame this sense of recognition. We do not know each other. And yet, there is this strange sense of familiarity, of knowing the same thoughts, seeing the same shapes, and sorting together the same pieces in the construction of a frame of meaning. At least, I think, I saw this in a dream. It might have been the Borges, we pored over pages, and pints of porter. I am still lost in a kind of dream. An impenetrable fog of literary interpretation surrounds me and I must, for a time, dwell alone in this dream.

You will not miss me. My thoughts cannot touch you.  

I will be reading. Reading endlessly of the dreams of others. Sorting through nightmares. Searching for Yeats in a fog.