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Quebec, November, Year of the Whisper-Quiet

  • Quebec, November, Year of the Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster. I am thinking constantly about mice. Where do they live at night? Where do they come from that they invade my kitchen
  • and squeak at 50 dB, well exceeding the output of our Whisper-Quiet Maytag Dishmaster? I can't even hear myself think (20 dB). They're going to wake my big-eared Canadian husband
  • John, who can hear everything and complains I slam doors when I am sleeping. John is from a family of deep sleepers, but he cannot get to sleep before 3am.
  • When John falls asleep at 3 am, I wake up. He talks in his sleep and we have the most romantic conversations. I'm having an elicit affair with my husband's sleep-self.
  • When Wendy falls asleep at 5am, I wake up. She talks in her sleep and we get to talk about sports. The she wakes at 7am and we make passionate love. I suspect she is having an
  • Idea or two about Politics. Because when she wakes up again at 10am, she talks about Ronald Reagan and his team. It's true that at this time I would be sleeping, but I still hear
  • all her political talk in my dreams, meanwhile I'm trying to escape from all the shitiness of real-life and spend some quality time in the Dreamscape....Luke would understand. He
  • wore gauze kurtas, love beads and hemp sandals and had a vacation house in the Dreamscape that he had furnished with east Indian gew-gaws. I begged Luke to let me be his butler at
  • whichever house he wasn't using. He insisted he was always at all three but that I could butler for him on his yacht when he wasn't there. "Deal", I said and spit into the palm of
  • a monk named Darren, who, until that precise moment, hadn't made a sound for thirty years. "It's okay," he laughed, "It was a dumb vow anyway. I should have given up cornholing!"

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