More waking dreams.

This time I was walking down Harvard Street at 3, with the bright sunshine itself shivering in the single digits.

As my steps fell in front of each other, I grew increasingly sluggish, as if a hypothermic sleep were stealing upon me. My shows got heavier and my arms sagged, though my spine stayed survival-straight.

The cold sunshine got brighter, almost white.

Then I saw my best death. As I passed a skeletal maple jutting from the brick sidewalk to my left, I imagined, in the course of one step, my body transforming -- from my leading toe to my trailing heel -- into a loose pillar of sand, sand that quickly disintegrated and swirled up into the frigid wind without pain, without worry, with just a quiet whispering end that might make some eyes cry.

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