I fell into a half-sleep while reading a paragraph in Delillo’s “The Names” and the text suddenly revealed elaborate, deeper meanings, as though the words on the page pointed to another world or dimension. I woke back up and reread. There wasn’t anything remarkable about the paragraph after all—though it was good writing, it was literature, with whatever that entails. The experience left me with the feeling that all text inherently has that power and mystery.

While music was playing in the living room I had a thought, or a feeling, or both, that the music wasn’t really playing at all and the room was silent. It might have been an effect of the restlessness of the mind today, always seeking new stimulation, never satisfied with anything in the moment. So then I perceived the room as both: a silent room and a room filled with music. Both were equally real, equally true.

Though the hallways at work are now quite isolated I had that feeling I sometimes get that someone’s following me, watching me. Not sure if it was true. When that happens I feel a hitch in my step, provoked by a great self-consciousness—akin to hearing the sound of your own voice on a recording. I sound wrong, I walk wrong. It must be obvious to everyone.