Don't Read Too Far Into This

I woke up around two into a fever dream. I'm not even that hot anymore. I don't know. Absurdist theatre works its veiny magic. Like that time I saw Hotel Rwanda feverish and dreamt of genocide. For a good couple of minutes I was awake but afraid to turn and face the room. They—they from my dream—seemed as though they must still have been real. I don't remember exactly what about them was scary anymore. They were four; at least one a woman, and well-dressed all. But there was the scent of someone murdered on the scene.

I turned the computer on and the light it shed on the apartment was enough to get me up to spend a few minutes in the bathroom coughing. Did I really dig up a red speck, or was that just my imagination? Everything seems wrong and twisted and just a little out of reach. Like trying to play goal in Côte-St-Luc's barn on cold meds and missing every other shot. And I couldn't understand what was wrong with me. It's important to have one's wits about one. Do you believe in your hallucinations? Do you read too deeply into what you read? Do you see too deeply into what you see?

Ça a l'air grave, mon gros. Get well soon.