It's pitch-dark. Your eyes have opened, but you cannot see.
Piece by piece, you begin to establish your location: Bed. Yes. Home. Middle of the night. Wednesday. No, Thursday, now. Early. Chilly. Fall.
Even as, half-asleep, you're reassembling yourself, part of you wakes up to the fact that you've just come from a dream: your body—abuzz, refreshed—is still in the feeling-state the dream created. Where you are, though, matters less than where you've been. Your body, still half-slumbering, is eager to return to the exotic land you've just left, but your mind can't make out where to go or how . . . . Wait, there's something. A boat. Your father, rowing . . . . No, not your father; some other male. You were coming from . . . a movie theater?!? Someone was there with you—to your right? Behind you? You can feel the absence of her presence. You turn back to the boat, but the guy is no longer there. Did he disappear in the dream, or did he disappear because you can't remember the dream? And was that a boat he was in or a pickup truck?
You keep searching, as if inching your way through some unexplored cave—arms, hands, fingers, fingertips outstretched—and whenever you feel you've almost got a handle on something—a picture, a notion—damn, it slips away, escaping deeper into the blackness. It was right there, just a minute ago. You were living it; asleep, yes, but your body is still feeling it, yet you can't connect the…