I am awake, seated at my desk, looking out the window as the sun is rising over Harris Creek. There are identities between that world that is conjured when I read a work of fiction, and the real world in which I find myself sitting and reading. Both worlds are storied, both contain characters enacting a drama. The difference is that the imagined world is not the world in which I eat, shit, and fuck. My experience of reality is one of being in the play, rather than imagining it.

Upon awakening the drama is absorbed by the perceptual body, a body conceived in four dimensions. Then, upon falling into sleep, the drama drains from the real body back into the dream from which it emerged with the rising of the sun. The dream, like the world of fiction, is unreal. You see what can happen to a story when the author falls asleep?

Images continuously exist; stories and reality come and go. The real body, the body that I call my own, is mortal in the same sense that light is mortal. There is no light in the absence of the dark.