———- Forwarded message ———- From: Jon Sarkin <jonsarkin@gmail.com> Date: Sat, May 31, 2014 at 12:10 AM Subject: To: michael digregorio <m.digregorio@att.net> Dear Mike, It all started out, as petty bickerings frequently do, with something insignificant and then it steamrolled, snowballed, into a cascading vendetta of wildly hurled epithets involving general psychic defects. This seemed an ongoing situation with Jim and whomever he was tangling. This time it was a tangle about whether milk expired precisely on the date printed on the carton, or if it was OK to drink it a day after the expiration date. This picayune disagreement quickly accelerated – degenerated – into knocked and dragged ugliness regarding personality issues and gross characterizations. At time such as these, Jim sensed the anvil-feel of his head in a vice, that cloggish sensation of some mental head cold in which his sinuses ached with brain pain, his perception hurting like the siege of Leningrad. Then, in the morning, it would be over. He’d arise, go to the office, small-talk his colleagues, eat lunch, spreadsheet his computer, subway home, watch TV, TV dinner, paper-read, and sleep. Sleep. Sleep! Was it a solace or a curse? I guess, thought Jim, it depends on one’s dreams. Good dreams are a blessing. They show you the way to solution, the rainbow over the hill, that hapilly-ever-after sensation that only unwaking thoughts can deliver. He craved those kinds of dreams the way a school-kid longs for summers at the beach, those endless humid afternoons of sea-green waves and boardwalk games. An escape from reality. Maybe Thoreau had it right, he thought. If I advance confidently in the direction of my dreams, and endeavor to live the life which I’ve imagined, I’ll meet with a success unexpected in common hours. Hugo — Jon Sarkin jonsarkin.com