A bout of insomnia lands me in my office armchair an hour or two before dawn. I read a chapter from Through the Looking Glass while pausing now and then to check in with myself, noting how much I’ve surrounded myself, occupied my living space, with books. Should I let go of some of them? Does their presence aid or hinder me? Do I gain future life from these mementos? Do I use them symbolically? Do I read them? Is my relationship to them practical, instrumental? How many of them open outward into communication again with others? Rehearsing that last question, sitting with it, mulling its implications, I start to imagine mycelia of letters, heads linking up for stoned exchange, psychedelic epistles traded among friends. I concentrate on prana, inhaling and exhaling. Next thing I know, I’m up on my feet, dancing around the room. The rest of the day proceeds in much the same fashion.