My friend Omid noticed it as well, the characteristic I spoke of to many other friends before returning here, the fear that troubled my dreams while I was back at Hampshire—the sleepiness of Mount Desert Island. You can’t set foot here without immediately growing drowsy. A stinging weight tries to close your eyelids, a peaceful sweetness fills your muscles like a liquid perfume, and your mind seems to clench as it fails to focus on any single thought. The drowsiness in the air scatters all ideas as rays of light are scattered from a prism into countless dissipating colors.
You have to fight it if you’re going to sustain yourself. Everywhere you look are the people who have long since succumbed to the white flowers of the lotus eaters, the dusty pollen in the fields surrounding Emerald City—the natives snore wherever they sit, and blink for at least a second whenever they find the strength to stand, as a sticky glue seems to have gummed itself to their eyelashes like the dew of a venus flytrap. These natives are like dreaming sloths, cradled in the lulling treetops, sleeping their lives away as the outside world roars and stampedes about.
Come here to rest for a few days, but don’t prolong your stay. You may soon find yourself gathered into the embrace of the earth, buried beneath the island’s somnolent soil like a seed that will never bloom.