I'm falling from the observation deck of the Empire State Building. I can't remember if I fell, was pushed, or jumped, but I hit the asphalt headfirst and go through it, like diving into a gritty, oily pool of darkness. The thickness is filling my eyes and nose and mouth while I am wondering if I can still breathe.

I gasp and disentangle myself from the sweat-soaked sheets, and fumble for my phone to check the time. Not even five o'clock. Damn it. I flop back down on the now cold and damp sheets, swearing loudly. There is a shuffle, and a scratch at the bedroom door.

Shortly I am sucked back into the viscous blackness, only rhythmic pulses of red light illuminating a blasted undersea landscape. When the pace accelerates I begin to realize it's my heartbeat, and wake up again. I notice I am still clutching the phone, so I send a brief text message to a fellow traveler in dreams.

Around six I give up and struggle upright, feeling my sluggish blood begin to circulate. I walk unsteadily to the door, and open it on a sea of swarming cats. I mumble a good morning to them and bend to scratch heads, remembering too late that I shouldn't bend over until my body has adjusted. I fall heavily onto the hardwood floor, nearly flattening a slow-moving feline. I decide to lie on the floor for a while and pet the cats. I still have my phone in my hand, so while I am getting covered in cat hair I have virtual tea with my distant friend. It's odd and silly, yes, but also good and comforting. I live in so many worlds.

Soon I drag myself back up and walk to the bathroom, take care of my body's immediate concerns, and splash water over my face. In the mirror I note I look vaguely deranged, like a mad scientist after a bender, and spend some time considering cultivating the style to deter annoying and easily frightened co-workers, but think better of it. I feed the cats, put coffee on, and take my morning handful of pills (now up to twelve at a time). I also think about eating before deciding against it, a decision I am sure I will regret later. When it is ready I take my coffee to the sanctum sanctorum. I check my mail, the news, and my myriad social networks. I consider responding, but decide to wait for the coffee to kick in. When I look at the piles of media and art and sundries needing attention around the office I sigh heavily and go back for more coffee. My body drinks coffee while my mind drinks data and my soul drinks tea.

Once my informational and chemical needs are met I head into a scalding hot shower and begin to drag three very sharp steel blades across my skull, neck, and face. As I do so I reflect on the personal choices leading me to start each day with the chance of excessive bleeding, and wonder if it is worth writing about. I decide it is not.

In my book-lined bedroom I select my work wardrobe based on the desired effect: loud and bright to encourage interaction, dark and creepy to encourage distance, professional jacket and tie to sow uncertainty about my future career plans. Today I decide on indecisive browns, then select the suitable purse and gadgets for the day's plans. I say goodbye to the cats, I set the burglar alarm, I lock the three deadbolts in the vault door, I put out some food for my porch companions, and I get in the car and begin my professional day.

As I drive to work I observe the strata of prosperity, suburbia, and crushing poverty. It preys on me, but I attempt to avoid depression. I fail. Miami does that to you. Once downtown I park in the garage, reminded that I pay $160/month for the privilege of working for my employer. Again I attempt to avoid picking up additional depression; again, I fail.

I walk briskly to my building, then to my office. I manage to avoid some "hallway meetings" because I am wearing brown; people don't know if it is safe to approach me. Before I can even start checking my e-mail I am brought numerous petty concerns needing my attention, usually support requests from illiterate, incompetent, or self-important employees, or warning about executives marking their territory. I sigh, and begin to solve things.

For the next eight or nine hours I do my job, trying — sometimes successfully — to avoid tearing into persistent idiots attempting to thwart me. I read other people's e-mail, write documentation and proposals, analyze processes, oversee web production, dispense advice — professional and personal — to my co-workers, breathe in the toxic mold spores pouring from the AC vents, and generally wait for the moment where I feel I have caused or healed enough damage for one day. Throughout this I drink actual coffee, virtual (and actual) tea, and Red Bull; eat a salad; and check my e-mail. Sometimes there are fights; sometimes there are successes; sometimes there are kudos; mostly there is tedium. The days of feeling as though I make a difference have long ago passed. Finally, around 7:30pm I drive home.

Once returned I fill my mind with the day's events missed while earning my paycheck, then sometimes do a little socializing (mostly on-line). Occasionally I remember to eat; occasionally it is something healthy. When I can convince my recalcitrant brain to cooperate I do some writing. If we can't reach an agreement, I read or research or watch DVDs. I soak myself in the world, filling the folds of my brain with information and images and psychologies and observations and magic for future use in my travels.

When I feel myself starting to fade I conduct my evening rituals: setting the alarms; saying goodnight to my feline roommates; silently letting my mind reach out to friends old and new, here and gone; wrapping myself in the past and resting my head on the future. And slowly I fall through this world and back into the luminiferous aether where my heart lives.

And I am wandering the halls of a lavender-scented house. The ceiling is made of crystalline shards, reflecting the light from the oil lamp I am holding as I walk past oddly illuminated paintings toward the closed door at the end of the hall. I hear soft breathing coming from within the room, and distant thunder on the wind. The door will open at my touch; I know this. My hand reaches for the smooth brass knob, trembling slightly. And then...