No refuge in sleep

I'm tripping out on Gomez's "Meet Me In The City" and pretending I'm drunk and pretending that every time I close my eyes images from my dreams from the last three days don't float up behind my eyes like beached corpses.

The suspended rollercoaster rails under a canopy of dead trees holding their strange fruit of body bags, with strange shapes inside? Don't see it. The bars which I had to climb in order to avoid being pulled into the black body bag which was partially unzipped, revealing a pale corpse face with dead-fish eyes protruding from a fleshless skull? Nope, not there. The lake of blood with the crumbling, sinking stepping stones? Nothing there. The doctor telling me that I had one week left to live, and me having to call you, tell you, watching you cry? Didn't happen. Hearing Cal think "Shoot them in the gut, because then they can't run," going back 15 years, feeling his arms slide around my waist? Nope, didn't hear that, feel that. Finding that he'd taken a mother and her little girl and that the police had found them, eaten alive (and I saw the whole thing in the way of dreams)? I don't know anything about that.

That dream of you, just saying "Hi" and waking up not remembering for a split second where I was. And the blood.

Didn't happen.

The Boy says this is not normal. And that I should get something done about it. But really, are headshrinkers really able to stop you from dreaming? It's been this way since I was four, when Death in a black silk robe came to stalk the corridors of the place I lived in my sleep.

My follow-up appointment with (one) of my doctors has me in possession of more tranquilizers.

Thank God.