As I've had occasion to mention here before, my dreams, the ones I remember, are embarrassing. Sadly this is not as a result of their guilt-inducing content. They are embarrassingly banal, murderously mundane. You'd think a chap like me who deals with a fair amount of what might be termed imaginative literature might be expected to spend his nights in thrillingly grotesque Salvador Dali-esque landscapes, but it just ain't so.
So it's been a bit disturbing to find myself for the last few nights remembering the blighters, when normally I seem to awake from dreamless sleep. What's going on? Am I in crisis?, I ask myself, but not with any deep curiosity. It's difficult to be curious about the utterly trivial. I suppose my subconscious might be urgently telling me, You really are a very petty bloke, you know. But this is hardly news.
I'm hoping for something a bit spectacular tonight: a touch spooky, mayhap; a smear of the surreal; a glimmer of the sublime. But, please, not me getting stupidly annoyed at work! I can do that during the day, anytime.
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