A Short, Unrevised Narrative on Dreams and False Awakenings.

Its a personal one, so I don't expect anyone to quite understand it besides the scattered, dissonant quality that they've probably experienced in dreams. No title as of yet.

My god, I hate it here and I hate how suddenly I arrived. Just woke up here, dressed nice and sharp like this, some guy bartering me his blanket for some figment as I shoved him off with some vague words of distaste and intimidation. It looks familiar in the worst of ways, like some day of synthetic insanity and ineffectual nothings, thousands of them, and as I stood timidly by my car I hoped like a scared mouse for all of them to pass me by.

After a while I realize where I am. Christ, I think, not this field of idiots again, the same dazed morons who got stoned and abandoned all constructive activity, tore at Leary's being while he was still inside. They're at his bones, now, stepping on them, breaking them. You'd expect them to stop at this point.

I coexisted with them for a while. The blanket-man was bearded and showed signs of a baby face behind all his wrinkles. He was aged by more than time and spoke like a psychopath, asking me all these questions that made no sense. Bastard terrorized me, stirring my paranoia... kept asking me what I'd do if someone decided to steal my belongings, kill me and break into my car, kidnap my friends and do unmentionable things to them. I accused him of all those things, ran over to my bass guitar and guarded it with my life. He simply laughed and put his hands up, telling me to calm down, that he was just preparing me for the other guys around there. He was my friend, he said. He sort of disappeared, I think, or maybe just walked off while I coddled my giant plastic case. I made sure my car was locked, looked around at the wide-eyed lunatics around me, and slipped off to the interesting looking house, half a mile away or so. The loonies paid no attention to me, which was good, and so I tip toed away 'til they were all gone.

What a miserable home to live in... it was filthy, and the entire second story had collapsed. It was big, too, and it seemed that such nice family could have lived here, with parents and brothers and sisters, and a loyal golden retriever named after a television dog star, or a horse named Mr. Ed. But instead, it was just a haven for cockroaches, and loners who felt like sleeping in rubble. It happened that I was quite alone, and quite tired. So, I fell asleep, and everything turned a strange shade of bright colors that didn't please me at all, and a vulture came and landed on the amphetamine-white dry wall structures around me and stared at me, uninterested, like a child into an hourglass.

I woke up in my room to the soothing sounds of infantile screaming. I walked over to my computer and shut it off. What pretentious garbage, I thought. Some nerve an avant garde moron has to wait around until his baby starts to cry(or does worse, if he's a real dedicated pseudo-artist) and record it with Oldfield's stupid little tubular effects. But, it was likely the most frightening thing I'd ever heard. I watched myself run upstairs and got sucked into the floor.

I awoke again and ran up to my bathroom, and began to spit up all the sorts of wonderful shades of black and brown and gray that you'd find in Limbo's swimhole. I stared at the mirror, and myself, contemplating the fear that I'd ingested Hoffman's hellish, schizoid prototype and that my insanity was permanent.

I woke up, and sucked a cigarette down real quick-like, hopped into my unlocked Ford Escort and indulged in a nice expensive cup of Starbucks coffee on the way to school. I got there right on time.

History was a fucking bore.