Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Waking up is always a traumatic time for me, and the wrenching of my consciousness back from the netherworlds is probably to blame. Vision blurred, the slightest sound reverberating like a knife in the brain.

Reality makes no sense too. My phone should be beeping out the time of day, accompanied by a little symbol of a bell, but I've yet to actually observe this. Instead, I see a jumbled mess of symbols and pixels, not unlike $#2&hello3&13^. Perhaps it's a genuine mechanical fault, or the product of the last remnants of my sanity streaming away. I guess it's more fun that way, not knowing which.

Last night I dreamt of a hamster named Kribbles, nestled in the palms of my hands, and a shopping mall, about to be blown up by terrorists. I flew down escalators and a vast atrium to escape, but the bombs were duds in the end. Members of the Shooting Club, thank your lucky stars, for I saw you all in there with me. I might have psychically killed you all.

And hows that for a frivolous post. But then again, nighttime logic never stands up to scrutiny during the day. It melts in the sunlight, as all things do.