Until three days ago, Parçigal had not slept well, no more than three hours in a sitting. Her mind ran busy moving invisible, imaginary things.
She was not tired. Her eyes unfocused but wide ovals.
Had she dreamt it all?
Maybe she had it confused: was she awake for those three hours, and, in fact, actually sleeping right, exactly now?
No-mind either way. Sleeping and waking became less distinguishable to her a decade ago. There was just lucid and sleepwalking.
She plods herself with aloof-nonchalance that conceals a passionate heart (smart or not). She can look until something appears.
Then the sleep will always follow.
Trivia: she says “thank you” aloud every time she yawns. To remind herself.
What a strange breath is a yawn. Inhalation and exhalation are required to breathe and live. Sneezing cleanses. Yawns seem like alarm clocks to wake you up from real life and let you know it is time to lucid dream. Yawns are the only type of breath that appear to be contagious.
What Parçigal found three days ago:
Mr. Price Preface from History of English Poetry from the Twelfth to the Close of the Sixteenth Century. By Thomas Warton, B.D. With a preface by Richard Price, and Notes Variorum. Edited by W. Carew Hazlitt. Volume 1.* London: Reeves and Turner, 196, STRAND. 1871.
“The immediate source of Eschenbach’s poem [sic. Parzival] was a Provençal romance written by one Kyot or Guiot. Of this writer nothing further appears to be known.”
Capricious as she had not been seeking it. But, sometimes she can see things when she believes them.
Curiouser and curio-user.
*Incidentally, “Of this Edition 500 copies are printed on small paper,
and 50 on large.
What are we to make of this?
WrittenCasey 