He stared at the pale pink on her fingernails; he wondered whose skin the fingers would trace in the evening.

He realized he was looking at a vision of the future: everywhere he looked were cell phones, iPods, portable computers, tools to stay connected and locked in to a reality that was becoming less about the here and now, and more about there and then.

With foam stuffed in his ears, he turned up the car stereo and felt the bass shake his body as he sped down the interstate, sign-posts and riffs zipping past like loose change in a bum's pocket.

Once in the air, words become difficult to retrieve or stuff back in the lungs with the breath which gave them life.

His nightly dreams disturbed him in his waking world; the dream world was drawing him in and creating doubt with the passage of the sun.

The salty scent of Play-Doh tickled his nose hairs.

His breath caught in his throat when he realized people were (still) reading his words.

In his sleep, the baby stretched between mother and father, hands and feet seeking warmth and protection.

He felt the hard, calloused skin on the side of his long, middle finger, and he realized he was, indeed, a writer.

She kept thinking his life as a writer reflected some sense of reality, while he saw the words as bulbs of fiction waiting for sunlight and water to burst into the world and show colors.

"The blue one," he said, "the blue one is one I can't let you read."

Red hearts adorned her vision; her hands were empty.

The night grew quickly; he was thankful the darkness hid his sins.

She dreams of Vin Diesel; he dreams of students cluttering his living room and searching for truth.

The baby's laugh was throaty and loud; the sparkle from his eyes traveled the distance through the phone.

The television drew him in, calling his name, sucking the marrow of action from his life.

The soles of his feet were cracked and red; he walked with the determination of an old man navigating a sidewalk covered in ice.

Head swimming, a clatter of brain, he tried to remember what he'd forgotten to do.

His first glance across the nave stole his soul, a fluttering in his chest worrying him, a sense of returning embracing him in the mimicked vision of his first wife.

Opening the door he noticed first the complete quietness of the house; no sounds of life and an emptiness hit him full face like a blast of heat in the winter air.

The excitement of the crowd drove him to a frenzy; he cried out, "Dear Muses, dear Muses, I must have a shoe."

He watched her from across the cafe, her blonde hair golden against the black, tight vest; when she knelt down to pick up a napkin, the flash of her tan lower back caught his attention.

Night fog covered the Big Easy, making the sky alive with crystal light.