My dreams consist of hallways. My dreams consist of dark caves with monsters that echo out from deep chambers in the tenor of my mother’s voice. My dreams consist of sex with my ex-girlfriends in basic positions because just being near them is enough, and the sex part is the proverbial cherry on top. My dreams are of nonsense, of me, for example, in an office room decorated in fluorescent pale lighting and a shade of grey found in dead skin, and me staring at a stack of papers, or something, typing on the computer, or something, or just staring at a wall clock while all around me people weep. My dreams are of crises. My dreams are illusions of suffocation, where I wake up gasping for air only to realize my nose has been plugged by the pillow.

Written at 11:56 at night, in my kitchen, in Agoura Hills CA, while considering taking an edible marijuana treat. 

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