Nap. The ideal open source. Here, the interwebs span synapse and erotic time. Time in bed in the day is always erotic. Alone, my skin feels alive under cool sheets, alive like eating. Eating like the salt in the mouth when you've been rolled by a rogue wave. The nap makes me think of chamber music. The viola, in particular, opens the pores. A small continent of music in the planetary bed. I drift, and reconfigure my topographies. I am parts, and the parts I am move through ecological eons. My knee, a himalaya--my neck a land bridge soon submerged by melting glacier. Dream during naps is less advisable. The lines I draw in daysleep contour horror, and personal apocalypse. My paranoic asteroid kills all species of me, reproducing in white sheet, redreaming themselves, and leaves instead a cardboard box I keep forgetting to mail, and forget again to.