I didn't know about your honeymoon excursion. I didn't know there was a Golden Gate Park sewage plant. There all those years, and I missed it. And I missed your picture of it. Maybe you could show it to me sometime.
I remember the heart-attact dream. I have it out, both to remind myself to send you your return package and to reread it. It's wonderful. And familiar. Wonderful? Not so while in it, but the telling of it. You know?
The closest was the shot-in-the-back dream. Shot lots of times in the back. I was dying. Lying there in the park at the foot of a statue, bleeding to death, and no one but the shooters around. I was thinkin' how cool it is to have someone to cover your back. And I was singin' in my sleeping head "last night I dreamed my eyes rolled straight back in my head. If you die in your dreams, do you die in your bed." And I woke up and I was choking, couldn't get any air. I'd got so my head was laying back over the pillow, flopped back, all cock-eyed, and I was choking on flem stuff (nasty). It took a good while to be able to get air into me. I didn't go back to sleep that night. Or to bed. Sitting on the couch, watching late night t.v., seemed the safest.
Yeh, sleeping can be as tiring as awake life. I feel like I'm pulling double shifts these days. |
