Snore Symphony, Disappearing Dream Carnival (in 100 words)

At 10pm, Disneyland sings its symphony of snores - the music of this purgatory been waking and working. You are also bound to catch the smell of somebody else’s feet. You are also bound to smell whatever the previous occupant’s clothes and body left in the uniform pillows and blankets. You can’t bring any personal mattresses or comforters in. Disneyland makes all it’s 30 customer service agents sleeping at the same time, look like batteries being recharged. I remember the first time I saw everyone sleeping altogether – amazing, and awful, imagining it as a lightless carnival of quickly disappearing dreams.

Disneyland (in 100 words)

There is a quiet room in this reclaimed land. “Disneyland,” it’s called. Considerable office space is allotted to discourage employees from sleeping in their workstations, or for whatever convenience (you may actually live here). There are ten 3-decker beds, each with a uniform white bed sheet, pillow, and a blue fleece blanket. There is a usually sleepy security guard assigned to watch out for the sleeping. They are the guardian angels of this carnival of dreams. They must easily understand why the angels were rebellious and envious. And they must have seen whatever it is that happens during your sleep.

Why Didn't I Write Before? (in 100 words)

Why didn't I write before? I would have been able to look back and say: what an excellent thought to re-absorb, what a splendid experience that was. Instead of just forgetting. You have never truly lived until you have written about your life. Writing is the act of owning, of possessing your reality. So now it's time to delve into the details. Begin gently, like your first sip of steaming-hot coffee. Then pick up the pace as in a conversation that's grown interesting. Don't worry about the time you lost or running out of space. There'll be another one tomorrow.

Would You Be My Muse? (in 100 words)

"Would you be my muse?" It's been so long since writing enriched my life. I could not remember the last time I wrote anything freely - without restraint, without actually tailoring my reality neatly. I've forgotten the time when I wrote as myself, not as somebody else who became who I am. Let me be nameless and let me tell you everything. Let me tell you about beauty, how senseless it is. Let me tell you how the moon moved in this reclaimed land by the sea, how the wind wrapped this evening in a lovely embrace. Would you, please?