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  • I don't dream much.

    When I do, I pull my self into a lucid state and pay hazy attention. Like mourners at a sleepers Wake, they pass by...looking down at the body to display their fragmented visions and are gone. Most I don't remember, but some stick like psychic fly-paper. They hang on me all day. They leave their residue...their goo.

    Last night was such a night.

    I tried to sleep. Swaddle myself in the comfort of soft nothingness, but that door always opened and the mourners kept coming in.

    Didn't someone put a time limit on this damn ceremony? When do the refreshments run out? God knows everyone leaves once the Lil' Smokies are all gone! And can't anyone water down the booze? That dream in the Yellow Room is making too much noise with his stories about me when I was 13 and...

    ...shit. Never mind. I'll just lie here and be the dutiful corpse. I'll take the visual beating.

    I wonder if this is what it's like to be in a coma? Aware of all in a twisted state of Time and Space. Compressed into seconds one moment and stretched out to eons the next.

    All night. I wish I could say it was as fun as a bad lover who refuses cab fare...but it wasn't.

    I finally accepted my place on the slab and watched. Obviously my mind...the Universe...has something to tell me and it's up to my darker bits to puzzle the pieces together. So I watched. And I waited. Until 5:30...when the alarm finally sounded.
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