Lie still and lie quiet, as if played by something more silently lethal than dreams. Crytomnesia instigates the release of new horrors; these are things that shouldn't have happened, things that should not still be happening.

They do, though. They crawl out from your gushing skull, bone and flesh and blood, like spiders bursting forth from round red figs, rotting even as they hang from the corrupt reaching tree. Its leaves were once wide and green but have shriveled brown up inside themselves; they sit next to the fruits, dark chocolate and golden brown to the maudlin color of deep well-intended bruises. And these arachnids crawl out, spindly legs peeking through the open skins like jagged mouths, crawling out from their fruity, womb-like pods. They are blind and on their backs linger traces of raw organs and fruit flesh. They are blind as wind, blind as wood, unseeing as granite and hungry for the mother who sits, a massive dead hull in her web. . .

But back to the room to the dream. Incoherent and feverish. Men in coats and top hats mill around, tapping their canes to the ground, adjusting their eyepieces and muttering. Crazy. Loons, once brave soldiers of the night with broadswords in their hands, glocks in their jackets, blood and ink in their hair; moon made their skin alabaster, their eyes gold. But the moon has betrayed them, left them to cling and pine after her madness. Lunatics and old men now. They move around me in thick shapes.

I know what it's like to be so incoherent. I know what it's like to lie half-awake and know that you're crazy, unable to form rational sentences but somehow able to spit quite clearly that the fever is killing your brain cells, hugged by insanity so that the taste of sickness sits in my mouth, warm and suffocating, and it is a comforter but not a comfort. Sand crystal insects crawl along my legs; a pig's heart bakes in my stomach. But now I am placid and watching these shadowy faux glass shapes murmur and stroll arhythmically. They confer with each other, a language where I know all the words but only the dark ones make sense. In shallow valleys of pillow hills I toss, confined to squirming, crushing and reforming the land, listening to the whispers and the fever rage in my ear. I cannot think, my thoughts crooked and blooded in the way broken cartilage is blooded. And I wonder, wonder when it will end and if I will die before the morning rears its sweet, salty, sleep-baked head, or if I will meet my demise in this torturous night, this oppressive darkness that is the air I breathe.