Lewis

Lewis looked forward to bed every night. The long rational day was kept at bay by his bedroom door, the assault of numbers and accountant's responsibilities were foreign bodies when he put on his pajama pants, their loud plaid a mockery of the conservative pin stripes he wore all day. He mustered an army of miniature goblins, painted in neon greens with gory mouths. On the weekend he would lead them into battle, but even that was not without its' hassles. The preparation was purely indulgent though, designing their distinct look was perfectly frivolous, and carried no expectations. Requirement melted away, he slipped into bed and read a fantasy novel, trashy with dragons and elves, a subject he could never raise in the lunch room at work. It was a book he would not have to expound on or deconstruct, he would never recommend it or listen to reviews. It carved out an isolated niche he could enjoy apart from the cacophony of others. Turning out the light and closing his eyes Lewis disolved and became formless, the sudden absence of perception allowed him to be any size, and tension could not be trapped by his definitionless parameters. Before he drifted off he thought the spot on his body anchored to this sleepy place. It's the spot you test to see if you're dreaming, the place on your arm you pinch, on your lip that you bite, or hand that you probe with a nail. He was sure everyone had a different one, like a secret key they kept to take them in between the two worlds. He wondered if he had ever seen anyone longingly testing their mystic spot, hiding it in plain sight and looking like they were just scratching an itch or adjusting their sleeve. The next day he kept a sharper eye, biting the inside of his lip.