Where do we go when we’re asleep?

Are we like the bee on the thistle? Fuzzy yellow on spiky purple, a color wheel contrast in stillness?

Are we like the barbecue spider? An eight-legged cast that no fly might wake?

Are we like caterpillar goo? Denatured? Deconstructed? Dissolved? DNA?

Or are we like me? Snoring (probably) with my mind on Doritos or Derry, dogs or dinners; eight hours of something and nothing before daylight and coffee and a reboot anew?

Where do we go when we’re asleep?

We’re dead (to the world).