the grinding of the wheel

I woke into the dream to find myself with Annie
in her room. She was upset. The orientation of the
bed was in a North to South alignment and not an
East to West one. This upset her greatly. Though
the bed orientation didn't please her, it was far
from being the sole reason for her reaction. We
began to talk. I had to be cautious at first. I wasn't
entirely sure what I was getting myself into. She
was lying facing up on one of the beds with a
glassed over look of inevitable defeat. This was
perplexing to me because of the presence she
radiated onstage during her performances. In her
present state she appeared as drained as an empty
bottle of water. The natural beauty that possessed
her was ever present though it reminded me of the
way a cut flower appears after some time in a vase.
It was the tour, the demands of the management,
the constant need to give the audience everything,
and if you saw her perform you could understand
what is meant by everything. The rigor of the road
was a joy that was grinding her down. She didn't
wish to admit it, but it was becoming clear that this
passion was beginning to unravel the parts of her
that needed to be kept under wraps. She couldn't
even remember if it was early or late anymore,
in a way it didn't even matter, in some ways it
was the only thing that mattered.