He lowers his head onto the pillow and begins to climb the trees of his unconscious. In one single breath, he lays back and reaches up to the first tree branch. The frames overlap. They are the same moment. Up, up, up - his rest carries him upward.

He climbs skyward, sleeping soundly, silently stretching from branch to branch. Here is a postcard of this great tree; it is smothered in sunset, and shows the stark streak of his silhouette scaling its side. The postcard is addressed to his mother in thick green ink. It floats out of his hand and drifts through the arms of the tree and onto his bedcovers below. Still moving higher, he looks down at how his bed is resting on a field of books, trees growing out of their open pages. He climbs his tree, he climbs his tree. He begins to hear melodies that sound like the sunset; both the sound and the sunset are in the air of his dream, this is their location. He is not really thinking about this. He is climbing higher. The rainbow of book-covers drops farther and farther away. He's not even sure where he's going, to be honest. Just higher. Further up, further in-like. To the sky, he supposes. The tree begins to sway, slightly. Soon the branches swell and swerve and shake and stir and spill him into the breeze. He tries not to change the rhythm of his steps, not to doubt his stairway. He wishes he was there, in the sky, but he is not - he is still holding on to whatever is there. He looks up and around at the sky. He climbs toward the sky.

It seems like there will be family there, in the sky. Family like he's known before. There will be barbecues, he thinks. The sky has barbecues in back yards so big that they are fields. Back yards that have hills. He has never been to the sky, but he expects it will feel familiar. Up he goes, up he goes.

He wishes he was in the sky, and climbs toward it in his tree. And no, he can no longer see his bed below. Two children on bicycles are wandering around out there by the clouds now. And now there are less and less branches; and there is more and more space. More and more sky. He is almost in the sky, maybe. He is still moving higher. He is waiting for a moment, for the release. He is waiting for when there are no more tree branches, when he has to let go to crawl into the sky, where even the allegory slips and flutters down prettily towards the book-field. He is waiting for some kind of release. Each branch is smaller and more tenuous, some feel almost whispy. He hangs onto them more tightly than ever, anticipating the last of them, unsure of what will happen then.

He is reaching for some kind of release, for some surrender to the sky.
He is sleeping, on top of his covers, waiting.