It is raining outside and I look out the window that teases me with the possibility of a life lived. I haven’t checked my mailbox for days and I try to convince myself to care.

The idea of walking to it with linear purpose overwhelms me with boredom. I wonder: How many acrobatic back flips would it take to get there? How many balletic twirls? Flutters of my eyelashes? Sexy high heeled, hip swaying struts? Loud black-booted stomps?

I open up a spreadsheet, excited, for once, to do mathematics. I create columns, rows and categories; I measure distances and prepare formulas for calculations. I grow bored and wonder: how would these calculations go if my fingers were calloused, nail-bitten and strong? If they were long and slender with nails painted in eye-dazzling varnish? If they tapped with the the tickle of a ladybug’s legs?

Time passes. One more day without the mail.

When I call myself a dreamer I do not mean that I have goals or ambitions. My dreams have no end beyond themselves: they are pure imagination free from the constraints of reality; free from wanting. They are perfectly self-contained nothings that exist outside of time. If I have one ambition it is this: to be neither more nor less than a dream.