I read over some other pages of my dreams, dating back to 2013. I am trying to imagine them as a book. There are certainly enough of them, and enough of them are "good enough." The idea is that they would be prose-poems of a kind, like my unpublished book Beaches of Northern California.
The key would be the selection of them.
I talked to the nurse; she said I had to take my temperature. Of course I have no thermometer and I can't buy one without breaking my quarantine. After I hung up I felt sicker than before the call. She said I could have a fever of 100.4 without knowing it. I don't feel feverish, but am quite tired. I either have a mild case of it / or I don't.
Of course, people who weren't productive in the first place now have a perfect excuse not to be productive. I'm feeling that I can write as well sick as well. A lot of what I view as my great flowing of creative energy has happened in relatively adverse circumstances.
I recreated "The Wild Swans at Coole" when trying to go to sleep two night ago. I was perfect, but I left out the stanza "Unwearied still, lover by lover / they paddle the cold/ companionable streams or climb the air. / Their hearts have not grown old. / Passion or conquest, wander where they will,/ attend upon them still." I know this stanza, but somehow the poem seemed self-sufficient without it.