Thursday, August 26, 2010


Our Founder of Bad Dreams
I am joshing with the investigator. He is looking into a crime which is of a very serious nature but which is of less significance because it's offset somehow, like in a reality show. I want to both gain his good opinion and perhaps distort his findings, because I'm the guilty party. I was convicted of another offense of the same nature this past year, in fact.

Someone is tracking me. He is Turkish; with a traditional beret and goatee. Here he comes. Crossing the street. He makes to impale me with a multi-forked device that hurts not at all but the meaning is obvious. I am a suspect. I accept the guilt, although I do not understand at all the crime.

I report to ER. We must dress in those bare-back hospital gowns. To do this, we are expected to lie down and wallow on the floor, squirming in and out of garb. I see a matron do this calmly, without reservation. It seems the more sensible because everyone else does it automatically.

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