The room dims dark, the light fades away, illuminating words on a page. People disappear, their voices mute, translucent as cellophane. Time is not time, as I sit on the bed, hours are not hours, and minutes are not minutes. The sun sleeps, the moon awakes, light darkens, and darkness lights. Howls of the night, my incandescing room, all is perfect for my love, my future. Mom, the invisible woman, with a voiceless mouth senses me to go to bed. But time is not time, hours are not hours, and minutes are not minutes, however she doesn't understand. I inch to the window seat and open the window, to see courtiers dancing on the lawn, their bodies like little pixels. They smile and wave 'till I wave back, then they come to my room, and we have a merry time. The words they speak are mine, too, and I read and read what they do. Their company grows dull, my eyes heavy, so I tell them to go home, until tomorrow when I'm ready. The ghosts turn to their home in the English court, and I snuggle in my bed, and sleep with my book cradled in my arms like every other night.