Another early morning and he had found himself in the same familiar place on unfamiliar ground. The wasteland of the unconscious, where the nonsense makes perfect sense. A desperate glance at a past love and the unexplainable presence of an acquaintance. Slight manifestations of childhood torment with the added comfort of bare thighs. This was a world where hue was undefined and everything sounded like it was under water. It was comfortable. Then a sound approached through the tide, like a passing siren only not as flamboyant, “You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar, when I met you…”. He writhed and pulled the bed sheets closer, trying to claw his way back into the dream, but it was time to get up. He dragged himself the short shuffle to the bathroom and positioned himself in front of the mirror to inspect the damage. “Don’t, don’t you want me…”, the radio played on. He was scarred by the folds of duvet, his eyes were red, and his tongue was white, resonating remorse for the “just one more glass”. The taste was vile, but this was nothing he couldn’t handle. He took a deep breath and bellowed at his reflection, “…we will both be sorry!”.
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