Clouds floating on a sky of sheets, puffy clouds waiting to be walked on by a trek of dreams and unrelated images. When the sheets have been changed and the smell of fresh linen is new that first night it’s like drifting to lemon scented heaven when my head  hits the pillow. It nails itself to the clouds of comfort for the night. The pillow gives and gives until it finds the stasis point, until my head seems to hang in free fall. But all the thoughts and troubles and exitements of the day seem to hear a starters gun and start doing laps around the outer edges of the pillow while I try to submerge myself in the land of sleepy bo bo’s, but sometimes they just want to keep doing the ten thousand meters. I become a  spectator watching them hearing them – imagining new and better ways to build new and better mousetraps until I’m forced to get up. In the middle of the night when the bite of winter demands some sort of covering and the rub of nylon or wool on your skin is reassuring. Pace a bit. Have a drink of water, gargle down cool clearness – is that a sufficient break from the trains of thought that seem to pass through the railway station of the pillow, or should I write to get it out of my head, onto paper? The pen scratches away at the ruled blue lines and a vomit of stuff  explodes onto the page, meaning and unmeaning – whatever comes until it’s expurgated and that cloudy pillow calls again and a yawn stretches the roof of my mouth and I taste the residue of toothpaste on my upper lip. Yep, back now descending into thought free solace. The luxurious desert island of the pillow….