I dream of a man who can shed his skin and assume the form of a cloud. He does this often, roaming far from the place where he hides his skin. I warn him that he is in danger of losing his skin. One day the skin is gone from its usual hiding place--someone has found it, and stolen it, or binned it. I do not ever see the man again.

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I have a deadline. I open the document. Then I open other documents, fiddling with words and formatting, and I lose hours doing this. I start to research, out of frustration. Scribble notes and reminders; make lists of books to read; order books. My fingers get splotched with ink, and I finally turn to the document, changing sentences and add other sentences. I feel a certain momentum build, like when I spot sprouting buds on trees or the deepening color of still-furled daffodils.

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