It's like the landscape is waking up.

It's small-town America. There's a strong draw to go into these small communities for the nostalgia and to go into nature for the beauty.

I woke in the hour before dawn, stuck in that strange state where the memory of your dreams is still powerful enough to motivate your actions.

In some parts of Ireland the sleep which knows no waking is always followed by a wake which knows no sleeping.

I do not know how to distinguish between our waking life and a dream. Are we not always living the life that we imagine we are?

I woke at intervals until . . . the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not.