Possibly a consequence of suddenly finding rest and refuge in the act of painting without ulterior motives.
The long sleep brought me a dream story about a person who became what he needed. He was beautiful and strange and filled with so many secrets. In the dream story he was my closest friend and he was also the farthest. I was the one who protected his becoming from the onslaught of Things that would destroy him. And then when he was all that he ever wanted I braced myself to let him go. I had no claim and I hid my own secrets. In the dream story I painted gigantic canvases of deep forests. I hid my own dreams of him among the trees. I hid among the flowers. I scattered a trail of seeds and bread crumbs. Because loose ends and loopholes sometimes are the toeholds of divine interventions, or cosmic jokes. Either way it was the only thing I could do. My own heart is mute and terrified in the din of its own desires. I am all wrong. I am not worthy. I am every shade of mistake.
I woke up thinking I need to buy envelopes for the newly-printed blank cards. And that I should get the cash from the bank for paying the electric bill, and the cable bill, and the internet bill. The morning is long gone. I started calculating the hours I have left for all the tasks that need doing. My mouth started craving for coffee.