You know the best thing about sleeping?
All my worst fears—strangers, crowds, crowds of strangers, cars, bridges, dogs with big teeth—none of those scare me by night. Vomit leaps the fear gap: I’ll run from dream vomit. But the thing is, I can run. I can’t, in the real world, unless you count a shambling trot.
I like my dreams, even the weird ones, like my teeth turning to fingers. Even running from zombies while death metal blares from the moon. If it weren’t for the vomit dream, I’d sleep all the time.
I wish death was dreams. I wish you drifted into that world and never came back. I wish dreams only died at the end of the universe, the last scraps of life in the dark era.
I might still be a bit tired.
I hope I’m not dying.
PS – I choked on three chickpeas this morning, in three separate bites. What am I doing?