When I was a child of five or six, I told myself bedtime stories. I cannot recall them in any detail now. They were modeled on the radio dramas I enjoyed at the time – Sky King, The Green Hornet, even Buster Brown and Froggy the Gremlin. I was small enough to sit on the base of the console radio in the indentation made for the speakers. After I had told myself my story, I prepared myself for the serious business of falling asleep. First I would press my fingers against my closed eyes. Out of the darkness a yellow color would arise, and then, subtly, shapes, organic, geometric, in swarming multitudes – Was I creating them, or had I seen them before? Could I ever hope to reproduce them? But I could not fix them in my memory. If I concentrated my inner vision they disappeared or became disturbingly incoherent. It was only when I relaxed my mind, my imagination, that they appeared, and I saw them in much the same way I could watch the faintest of stars using my peripheral vision.
I saw the shelves of toy stores, brimming in toys in those bright, raucous blues and yellows that only plastic can achieve. And I saw fantastic processions of giant insects with the kind of buried‑camera view that buffalo stampedes are shown in the movies. It was with no sense of fear or loathing that I watched these immense insects, as various as the shelved toys, move toward me. It was with a kind of sadness. As the monsters passed over me, past me, even as it seemed, through me, I knew that I was falling asleep, and that the vision was ended.