I’d give to sleep. I’d give anything to move past that same page in my crumbling book I’ve been stuck on for weeks. My fears and my sorrows have been replaced by rage. My once vivid dreams are an escaping mist, breathing between dust-fallen fingers of slowly fading rings. I’m a paraplegic staring at a collapsing ceiling from my bed, but the snarled teeth in my mind are screaming it fall faster. “Do your worst!” they cry in unison: a million Tiny Men, the out-timed Heroes of their histories. I was the hero of my dream tonight; I had conquered the terrible foe. Then I looked in an unseen mirror and stood before myself. I was in a beautiful Italian suit, soaking wet from the raining ceiling pipes. As the parade in my honor swirled silent-by in the New York loft, I surveyed the dead-bodied man with overused hair follicles and gave a wretched thing: was this a smile? My mouth agape in the oval of the idiotic shape, I could only think one thing: what would Dr. Gonzo think?
I wonder if they know I know their secrets. I wonder if they know they know all mine too.
Quiet now, Friends, the ceiling from the burning apartment above is now pouring it’s ashes towards my face.
I hope I look nothing like my doubled dreams.