Glass eye man

I slept late yesterday. And woke with a nightmare.

Everyday, while turning in, I go through a whole range of mental paroxysms. Mental, not intelectual, not emotional. I lie, my eyes shut, and as I try to sleep, I listen to my voice in my head and try to figure out which of the many figures within this skin has chosen to surface with sleep.

I do not remember who fell asleep when I lay down yesterday. But when I woke, I woke with a nightmare.

The world of dreams is an amorphous world. What you remember afterwards is not the whole story, more like a few leaves from an old book, that you try to order and piece together, try to build a narrative from- grope at certain images and faces, trying to figure out why they appear so familiar.

I do not remember whether I saw one dream or many, one leaking into the other, after I fell asleep yesterday. But when I woke, I woke with one dream.

This much I remember though, a woman in a black shroud, waiting - I think I desperately wanted to meet her. And I remember also, a room with damp walls, musty but large. And I remember someone patiently stalking in the street, on the roof, behind the door, on the pavements, feline, predatorial: tall and lean and pale, with green glass eyes.

I wonder who woke up in the morning? Him or I?