Last night, fifth night with a fever, as I lay down to try to get more sleep than I did the night before, the phrase "Glorious sleep" popped into my head. I closed my eyes and watched a battle of images Blake and Milton would have been in awe of: blunt dark-blue shapes pounding down, on dull, ground-down coals, which coughed up balls of fire as there only, futile defense. I don't know how long I watched this battle on the back of my eyelids. I woke this morning thinking that Blake just may have had a low-grade fever for decades.
Posted by: jared lien | February 10, 2006 at 06:56 PM
Posted by: suzanne | February 10, 2006 at 05:40 AM