I’m asleep, I think.
I’m dreaming, I know it. Everything has that pans-reality feel. People aren’t the people they are – but they are. Places aren’t the place they are – but they are. I would go into the details but the dreams of strangers are tedious at best: “You were there except you weren’t you, you we’re my 3rd form English teacher and I was at my work but it wasn’t really work- it was a field in
I wade down my hallway through the darkness bumping miscellaneous flotsam and jetsam – could be lamps could be pillows – I could care less. I think little for my house and its glorious array of western excess. I feel down the walls to guide me to my hand rail. And I am up climbing dripping wet on to my plush mahogany stairs. Two voices fight within me as I climb. One shouts “The world is ending!” the other murmurs “it could just be a flood I guess…” I hear the roar of water growing louder.