It is possible to be in two dreams at once. If I dream about you, and you are asleep at the time, you are in both your dreams, and mine. Still, you’re not really in my dream, are you? It’s like a party you’re invited to, but aren’t allowed entry. That’s too bad, because you would have really loved it.
الذين ينامون واقفين : الخيول و آباء الأطفال حديثي الولادة
I told her about the time that I got so tired of you stealing the sheets that in my sleep-weary logic I decided that the thing to do was to tie them around my legs, knot and all, and how, when you attempted to steal them that night, you ended up yanking me into you, and I was so startled that I sprang up, tripped, and was nearly concussed.
Normally, it takes people about 60 to 90 minutes to reach REM sleep, so they wouldn’t enter this stage during a 20 minute nap. People with narcolepsy often enter REM sleep soon after falling asleep. If a person enters REM sleep in two or more of the five naps in eight minutes or less during the study, it’s highly suggestive of narcolepsy.
I have sometimes thought that the reason the trees are so quiet in the summer is that they are in a sort of ecstasy; it is in winter, when the biologists tell us they sleep, that they are most awake, because the sun is gone and they are addicts without their drug, sleeping restlessly and often waking, walking the dark corridors of forests searching for the sun.
I had a dream about you. We were almost omniscient, seeing all the problems in this world. We noticed the scratch on my bumper, the ding in my passenger-side door, and the bloodstains in the trunk of my car. But we didn’t notice the biggest problem of all—our kidnap victim’s family had no money—and no interest in getting him back.
I had a dream about you. You were you, but you were many—a multitude of mannequins, each named Manny. And I was me, but I was Dark Jar Tin Zoo, and as such I made love to you—all of you. Then I woke up alone, naked, cuddling a mannequin I named after you who smells like you, because I spray it with the same fragrance you used to wear. Is that crazy? No, I didn’t think so either.
I had a dream about you. Too many people died that night to count. Still, I had to provide the Minister of Numbers with a rough estimate. The number I told him was two, and that number may be off by one or two people. In the dream, nobody could find my in-laws, who may have been on vacation, or they may have been viciously murdered, depending on who you ask and what you saw. Say, what did you see?
I had a dream about you. We were in a band. I was the lead singer, guitar player, saxophonist, harpist, violinist, bassist, cellist, harmonica player, pianist, and drummer. Oh, and I played the trumpet. And you, you had the important role—you played air guitar. I feel this dream accurately reflects me as an unselfish person, willing to stand in the shade so someone else might enjoy the spotlight and get all the glory.
There's a strange sensation - you recall it from childhood - about sleeping in the afternoon. You rise into a different world from the one in which you lay down. The shadows have been rearranged. There's a sensation of sad sweetness, as if something has been overlooked. I used to feel it coming out of the movies just before dinnertime, after the matinee. How, I wondered, did Broadway actors face it, this bittersweet sense of time's slipping past.
I had a dream about you. We were playing chess, and logically we were both wearing football helmets. You were winning, so I started to complain that perhaps I was losing because I was suffering from Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, due to the violent nature of the game. Then you took off your helmet to reveal the fact that you had no hair or skull, and you had waffles for brains. So I poured syrup on my gloved hands and scooped out your intelligence to consume it.
I had a dream about you. You were a lone candle on a barren vanilla cake, and I was the mighty breath sent to extinguish your light. I felt like God’s wrath coming down to destroy the Illuminati, while you probably thought I was the Satan coming to snuff out the light of the world. And the spectators who were gathered around the spectacle probably thought it was all one big party, as they stood still like mindless zombies singing “Happy Birthday.”
I fall asleepCall it deep while all is well be-Cause my life seems like a freestyle mean-While asleep on the couch I dream it's a written piece and nowThe symphony's soundingShouting out to these feet whose leaps feel foul but quite loudBut howI'm allowed to live my dreamsMy Chimeran team brings the Siberian breedRiding reality free 'til these tires they freezeIn mires in dire need of wires, fire and heat butI love a dark, hard cold heart in the wintery breeze
I had a dream about you. You had no skin or muscle on your face, and to try to conceal your bare skull you liberally applied lipstick and makeup. Your birthday was coming up, and I knew you were probably sensitive about parties that emphasize the aging process, so I decided to box up your gift in a coffin and wrap it with black wrapping paper. I got you the best gift ever too—a hooker, who happened to be dead, because that enabled me to procure a sizeable discount.
I feel guilty because for a long time I didn't allow myself a television, and I used to drop that fact in conversation to impress people. I thought it made me sound dignified. A couple of years ago, however, I visited a church in the suburbs and there was this blowhard preacher talking about how television rots your brain. He said that when we are watching television our minds are working no harder than when we are sleeping. I thought that sounded heavenly. I bought one that afternoon.
