My dreams are always full of weaknesses. Constantly needing to defend myself: I never find the strength to throw the punch, I never find the speed to escape my pursuers. I'm sure this probably means something.

My ripostes are getting quicker. My stop hits beat the tempo to the punch. It's not perfect, it's just the first step on a roadway which yawns away into the distance.

On the piste, reality may actually become a welcome vacation from myself.