I used to dream—unconscious epic-length stories of espionage and adventure, of terror and unspeakable joy, of old friends and new faces, of angst and peace, of God and love and man and life. Sometimes they were realistic, and my feet plodded earth the entire time, and sometimes, just sometimes, I could speak Hebrew and run faster than the wind.
I don't dream anymore, at least not like that. Instead, my sleep is full of coffee-making and angry customers, of cash registers and never stopping to rest, of darkness and the crackle of the headset.
I am so very very tired.