Skunk:
Dreams are strange, and I know... They’re so abstract, and yet they’re so
concrete at the same time.
Thoughts
carried over from his childhood, the notion that even back then much of life
was simple day-in-and-out, life lived and forgotten in its collective
mundanity, his breath gathered then abandoned in the ever-deepening pool of
necessary repetition just to allow progress on through: eating, sleeping,
laundry, the cutting of nails and hair etc.
And
yet within this, dreams of such intensity and substance as to circumvent the
hours of their creation and existence, passing on into actual remembrance so
that years later what was real and what dreamt would move about each other with
no discernible difference.
Skunk:
I mean, just one example of this when, was when I was at primary school,
I used to see this friend of mine, I actually saw him every day at school, but
every weekend we would get together at, it was it was alternate weekends, one
week I’d go to his house, and the next he’d come to see me, and we’d play, or
go for a walk, or into town, you know? And one time I remember we were coming
back up the road to my house, and as we were passing the petrol-station there,
we saw a car back over a petrol pump and knock it over, and and, there was this
sudden burst of flame pouring up out of the ground, and the guy just got out of
his car and walked away from it. I cannot really, I mean, I couldn’t say for
sure that that really happened, but I remember it now like it was real.
It wasn’t very dramatic or anything, it just seemed very... Maybe it was
just a particularly vivid dream that stayed with me.
Not
having spoken to any of the nurses yet, today, he’s unsure as to whether her
sleep is natural, or the result of continued medication.
