Supine

Did you know that Salvador Dali would take small naps with a key in his hand and a dish beneath him? When he dropped into a peaceful slumber, the key would fall into it, waking him up. He was inspired by Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams, which came through his art. I’ve been having some bizarre nightmares recently, you know, those that blur the lines of reality. I don’t know what possesses me when I dream, but it is monstrous. My lungs fill with blood upon waking, and I spend my mornings slumped over the toilet bowl, letting it push its way out. During these episodes, I am told that I walk into the local and pour myself a glass of beer, finishing it off with dregs from the nearest ashtray. So, somewhere inside me, half-finished cigarettes are waiting for the moment they can reignite. And, I suspect that won’t be too far off as I knock myself out every evening with a helping of absinthe on my toothbrush. Sadly, my teeth don’t turn green as one might anticipate. The morning breath is the foulest thing of all, a languid rot. I am somewhat thankful for my perpetual loneliness as no poor soul will have to endure such horrors when opening their hopping eyes for a mid-morning kiss. 

Empty, I peel my kneecaps away from the lino. The stench of mushrooms forever permeates my kitchen. Brewing them for coffee has benefits, but it’s difficult to banish that earthy aroma. Half the town think I’m crazy, and the other half is just as insane as I am. You wouldn’t believe how often I get leaflets about religion through my door. My favourite thing is to write down what I see in my dreams on the back and give them to the postman. An eccentric can spot another of their kind with supreme accuracy. In the last few years, a strong bond has formed between us, with him leaving abstract art on my letters. He gives me a single shoelace every Christmas, but he doesn’t hand them to me personally. Instead, he leaves them on my doorstep for me. On my Birthday, he tapes a handwritten recipe to my door. This time around, it called for fermented tripe and peach compote. While it wasn’t pleasant, it gave me the most unusual dreams I have ever had. I was wrapped in a sheet of candle wax, and a plague doctor stood before me. He didn’t say a word, but I could sense a hint of satisfaction. During my attempt at sitting up, small holes formed in the sheet causing it to resemble a honeycomb. Before I could escape, the doctor pressed his cane into my chest. The sound of a key falling onto a saucer roused me from my peaceful state of deep contemplation. Despite the sometimes terrifying nature of these hallucinations, they allow me to know the true meaning of ecstasy.

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