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King Peridor stepped out of the dream and closed the door behind him. 

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Dream Log - May 7

The sun is jelly-red & my body alights with the heat. I scoop out what I trust is sunscreen with cupped hands, trying to rub it into my arm-skin. I turn around into a room with two large windows. I can see stacks of furniture outside – from my childhood bedroom & my college dorm & my current apartment – swaying in the plangent wind. I try to lower the blinds but they snag, then get twisted & caught in a heap of lopsided mess. I continue lining my skin & wrapping myself with anything I can grab: blankets, towels, cake frosting, cling film. I build this cocoon, my temporary sepulchre, until I cannot see the windows & my mind fades like when the surgeon says to count backwards from 100. Soon it’s purple-black & I know that when I wake from my metamorphosis, the windows will be clear & the furniture will be gone & my consecrated undoing will be over.

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You have lived past your Sell Buy Date. There are consequences. You cannot remember everywhere you have been, or everyone. And you still haven’t decided whether you want to go or stay. After all this time the self is a problem you cannot solve. 

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“I work in a toilet museum,” he said, bracing himself for the inevitable. 

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