To fall a sleep

It passes through me, a mist that leaves me with a vague sensation of weightlessness; an impression with no out lines, a silhouette that is interchangeable, an illusion, a dream.
Between the falling and the landing is the dream, the distance from one reality to another. The bed is the haven of the depressed. Nightmares are better than this waking daylight, that floods with sanity. Walking the walls of a tornadoes flawless twist.

The winter blew in cold and unexpected, as I softly walked out the door. I could smell food sizzling on a backyard grill. I grabbed the last cold beers in the fridge, a blimp of mild tasting hash and two baking potatoes; Iris had said that I should come on over regardless of her husbands behavior. I squeezed through the privet hedge, holding the beer and spuds. Iris and Harold live in a small cottage, the type you'd expect Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle to be ironing clothes outside of, black and white and thatched, country style. Harold is a retired Major, fox hunting man. Iris is his wife.
"I see chicken's your favorite Harold" I remark as I deposit my offerings on a plastic lawn table.
" It's on special this week"
I resist the urge to make a comment about salmonella.
"Where's the fabulous face lift"
"I wish you wouldn't call her that"
"It's not as if I don't call Iris that to her face, she thinks it's funny"
"Well some people have an odd sense of the comedic tradition"

There's probably only one place Iris would be on a Sunday afternoon, The Lady Lake Health and Beauty Spar; where they enable aging ladies to maintain a youthful aesthetic that little bit longer.