It struck me in this unfreezing and unexpected cold in Louisiana: whatever problems there are are not mine alone; the body clinging to mine knows as little as the body to which it clings.

The usual cluster of notables peopled my dreams and lifted me into consciousness on a fat red rug ably designed for rest. The twitter of my soul and a blink of light behind me that was no blink but where my imagination thought it brought me to a rousing desire to snuff more wine outside.  My wife--any other title would be inept--came into the room, twirling with the spangles of an angel's sleep, replete with a mouth upon whose motions calm and excite a sailor as do waves, and said the smoke polluted her. We respond:

When you burn a piece of paper over a campfire it alights to the wind, carrying it upwards in a rocking motion that reminds you of the seemingly arbitrariness of butterflies, of vultures circling the sky about to drop.  Lunging into the air as you dream a butterfly might, gratifying, you make your way. Detach, then, from myself, as you would the deft cut in the air left by the remonstrance of a butterfly following its instinct, and consider the unlikeliness in our care for smell and sound as matters to no less my soul than the next boy who dies today for lack of water.

My digits type frozen and every misstep a likely hazard. Send me in all ways but not onto a balcony because you, delicate smoker, couldn't take a whiff of the poison you work to buy.