Joshua hated
sleeping, but waking up was worse. Nightmares were not the problem: he
never really had any. Nobody ever bothered to chase him in his dreams; he
never plunged from a tall building to wake up just before exploding like a
pomegranate, nor did he ever experience even the vaguest presence of death.
There was little violence, only occasional vanilla sex, his dreams damp
rather than wet, his subconscious a Wilmette where he was forever sleepily
immortal. Still, he would wake up sweating, his heart thumping. What caused
his torment was that the dreams were inconclusive; they did not so much end
abruptly as they whimpered their lame way into his wakeful state; the
absence of notable transition was the troubling thing. Baruch thought that
whatever is, is either in itself or in the other. Well, Joshua's dreams
were neither one nor the other.
Read on...
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