The room was dark. I had a mattress, with yellowed covers- covers that were originally white and clean. I had a row of deodorant bottles on a rotting wooden shelf and I had a cheap, cuboid TV with a long antenna that didn’t really work, a closet and a record player with half a dozen records next to them- all of which were Radiohead. I was alone in the world. As I always had been. I’m not sure if it’s even enjoyable to be alone with no one near anymore. Currently I hated it. I hated this room and it’s Windows. I hated the fact that I claimed to need sleep so often. When I didn’t really, it annoyed me and caused me to get funny looks off people that I said it to.
I laid down on my matress and begin to wonder about the meaning of my dream last night. Which was surreal I felt like it had meaning but I couldn’t latch on to it. I yearned for the meaning but I couldn’t find it, it evaded me, and it pained me. I took a couple of drags on my cigarette regardless of the pain and my cough.
My mind wondering about what the screaming man, the man screaming in a darkened room with dark curtains surrounding him meant. I took a couple more drags on my cigarette and I still had no understanding of the dream, and it still pained me. Only much later did the screaming begin, again, unfortunately.
Ben Brizell 