Recurrently, she would count the number of beds, all the ones she’d ever slept in, to discern the splayed breadth of all the different (and unlikely) places she’d been. The warm-bodied company in those various beds was of no further interest after the fact; only the location and feel of the room would she recall at all. She'd remember where the windows were, if any, she'd remember how low or high the bed had been lofted, she'd remember what the lighting was like, whether it blared from a large fixture in the middle of the ceiling, or throbbed in the corner, a fading bulb in a dark shade. She'd remember how cold it was.
Dylan was a heavy sleeper. Periodically one had to shout her name directly against her skull to summon the mind so deeply numbed inside: her astral planes were separated by miles. Of cloud, earth, and water. And so it also took her a long time to drift. She numbered bedsteads, like some people do sheep, like counting the passing waves on the march out to sea. It took her a long time to feel the deceitful undercurrent of what TV commercials marketed as “home”.
— Angry Dylan from “Runaround Sue” / darlfinch