Often my body wakes up hours before my mind does. It takes the brain for a walk, it shows the eyes around. It picks up the head and walks it to the front door, where the New York Times have been thrown. Then the eyes are moved along the letters, the words, the sentences, the articles, the columns, the pages, then just pictures, the weight of the heavy paper wants to pull the body back to sleep. But it does not want to go. It then drags the brain to the desk, places the head between headphones, to create a bit of a sonic privacy, opens the PowerBook, the browser, the mail.
It sometimes takes hours before the mind knows what is happening, and by that time some emails are sent and some posts are made and all just by fingertips on keys, as they pretend to be the storytellers by a campfire or even the writers who need to sink the quill into ink after every slow and scratchy sentence. Tip, tipp, tipp, on warm and shiny keys.
The phone rings around that time and if I was lucky enough to mute the answering machine the night before, I might then stay asleep for one more tiny while. Like now. I am dreaming, am I not?