2:52 a.m.: I just awoke from this dream.
I am sitting at the edge of my bed holding a writhing viper in my hand, right at its neck — I suppose a snake’s whole body is his neck, but you get it. His neck region. And this snake will writhe and writhe, and then stop still, mouth open, fangs bared, head pulled to one side or tilted backwards, in a manner not unlike a fussy child. He’s trying to find just a suggestion of skin so that he may catch a fang upon it and, in an instant of an instant, contort his body to fully realize his goal.
“Listen,” I say, “Listen, we should really — ”
The snake writhes viciously for a second — think one of those giant tube men you see on used car lots flopping around with bursts of air, but on extreme overdrive — then rests, flaccid save for its mouth, which is taut.
“We should really talk about this.”
I let the snake go, sort of toss him away. He bites me instantly. And then over and over, I think. I wake up.
I can’t believe how vivid that was. My dreams never are. The vividness almost makes them scarier. The discernible more fearful than the unknown. Still, able to recall or not, the meaning’s unclear.
Goodnight again, hopefully.
Except I realize that the AC is only running a bit. It runs nearly constantly all day. The night must have cooled the air considerably. But I’m hot, out of my covers. In sweats, yes. Wearing sweats. I panic that the AC is broken again, the fourth time in four weeks. Though each previous time, the unit hasn’t stopped, but has soldiered on audibly and simply failed to produce cold air. Now it is dead silent.
I check the unit — 73 degrees. 73 usually has me under the covers, even in sweats. The panic now shifts to my health: I have a fever; that burger I ate for dinner was undercooked. But I really think this is anxiety. About work in a few hours, about thinking I know what I should be doing, loosely; about wondering if I’m good.
No more for tonight, If you please. Unless it’s good shit.
Who really knows?