In the crepuscular mood that holds me between being fully asleep and fully awake, when I haven't even checked the blade of light cutting through the bottom of the curtains, nor the clock on the bedside cabinet, I vaguely register the muffled noise of the occasional tractor passing by; I know the fields will be white and the air crisp.

My Imaginary Friend breathes gently by my side. His fingers dance inside my hair and rearrange it on the pillow. I have spent the night octopussed on him and can't tell my limbs from his. Somewhere on his chest I shall find my face, buried in his smell.

In that crepuscular mood... I am happy.