Dreams. These things that happen when I die on a daily basis. I'm cold; the lucidity of the sensation, like a pressed towel on near every part of exposed skin. More a suggestion of cold. The environment saying "you should be experiencing cold". But the feeling from inside myself is warmth. Mix of texture and thoughts jumbled together in a fragrance called memory. The qualities of memory such that the distinguishability of reality based, and imaginary dissolves into hazy murk requiring constant labor to keep separated. The tides of time sloshing each moment real or otherwise toward the churning focus some decades in the future. Seeing the clear inevitable moment on the horizon where the past of tomorrow is more fiction than fact, If it isn't already. I like to sleep. I like to be asleep. But, lately, I don't really like to dream. There was this bag, or wrapping around my head. I knew that I had recently been born, but contained all these memories from some past life, as if it was the life of my genetic grandfather. I had been playing with the carpet on the floor, a loose weave of strips of plastic ribbon, a shitty artificial grass. I pushed it side to side, pulling the weave left and right, and up and down, looking at how the weave bound and tightened and loosed and opened in different ways in reaction to the forces. I didn't pull at the protruding strips which made up the grass like part. More interested in the matrix which held those threads. George. A feminine voice spoke, and I turned my head toward it, and the bed was there above my height, as I was close to the ground observing the carpet. An elephant toy stood an the edge and precariously and unknowingly began to move, to walk forward, Walk is the wrong word, It vibrated itself, jiggled and shook and skittered forward. Apparently this elephant was George. A masculine voice from somewhere else, a Slavic envelope on vowel and consonant: Orwell. I attempted no reaction to the second word, knowing they sounds should mean nothing to me, but I can't be sure that my heart didn't sharply move hearing it. I can't be sure that they didn't have monitoring equipment sensitive enough to read the tiny motion, involuntary. Already there have been these moments, Oh this one time I was in such and such situation, and then this happened, and Ah, I see, that was actually a series of dreams I had over the course of several years, it wasn't a "real" event. I 'woke up' on a bed. alone. This bag on my head, my breathing blocked in sinus and at this bag. I sat up and pulled the bag off. And became aware of a fact. My motion was tied to someone else's motion. To me it was clearly just a fabric bag, or wrapping but to this other, or indeed perhaps others, it wasn't to them they were protrusions of dangling flesh. And I had in my motion and desire to rid myself of the inconvenience of labored breathe for a moment, also I tore the outer flesh off the skull of another, or others. I put my hands to my face and screamed, others from somewhere else were coming and I heard the terrible cries of a woman but I didn't see her. And as the walls come down it becomes harder to argue strongly that the distinction indeed matters. Senile. Perhaps to fight against it is folly. Perhaps it not only is natural and inevitable but desirable. The siren song of fantasy burning the field of rationality So desperately clung to with all strength of ego burned ten-fold for a flicker, and already ashes. A thought, structure can be found again with unimaginable pressure and heat, turning ash to crystal. Crystal being static however is viewed with disgust, to change is to live, What could it be called to remain the same thenceforth and forever-after? Death, doesn't quite ring true, as it evokes less than gradual decay. Will desires change, or else why possess will? Being without will - automaton, zombie, tool. Therefore - subservient to other wills, slave. Bias of my ego self: It isn't noble or praiseworthy, it's copout, self-defeating, pathetic. The route feels wrong at a glance, but no other route appears on the charts. While it's been observed that a person can "pierce the veil" and return to rationality, has it been observed that one can fall into senile confusion and return? I haven't at least. Again the siren sings of desirability of the state, attempting to justify the inevitable rot of mind as feature rather than bug. The present self weeps for the future where no fight will be found within me. And that future self looks at me as a child and then jumps head first into wonderland. .

incoming references