All night I dreamed about dying. Every time—I was shot once, bleeding out; another time, I had some kind of wasting illness—I woke up instead of never opening my eyes again, but whenever I fell back into the dream, there was a different death to go through. Some of the circumstances, waterspouts, unmoored islands, shell-like crusts of uninhabited buildings in the middle of cities where I've lived, might have made intriguing story material if I hadn't been distracted by the endless iterations of mortality, none of them opera-clean. Today fails auspices.
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- 1: But the soft and lovely silvers are now falling on my shoulder
- 2: What does it do when we're asleep?
- 3: Now where did you get that from, John le Carré?
- 4: Put your circuits in the sea
- 5: Sure as the morning light when frigid love and fallen doves take flight
- 6: No one who can stand staying landlocked for longer than a month at most
- 7: And in the end they might even thank me with a garden in my name
- 8: I'd marry her this minute if she only would agree
- 9: And me? Well, I'm just the narrator
- 10: And how it gets you home safe and then messes the house up
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