Goodnight

Grey Goes Better with E
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

When it comes to dreams, I should take my own advice more often. Write that mother down as soon consciousness is had. Grab the pen and paper combo next to the bed and write like the Dickens.

I don't dream often, but I do dream in cycles. Those cycles are defined by months of blessed nothingness followed by three weeks of harrowing REM psychic shiver. The dream weeks are raw, painful. Like having a visceral Maglite shoved beneath your eyelids for hours each night. Intense.

Thematically, they've been consistent for decades. Death, murder, terror. Last night was no different. There was a large Victorian home, an orphanage, and a murderer on the loose. Murderer was said to be lurking around town. Reminiscent of something, hopefully prophetic of nothing.

If I die in my sleep tonight, you'll know who did it. And with death, all I ask is to be cremated and then to have my ashes set on fire. Comprendez-vous? Posthumous publication of some of my work would be fab, but primary focus is on cremation and ash burning. And perhaps a Pulitzer.