My brain was completely drained of serotonin last night, and I was spooked on the spooky stuff and had a head full of melatonin. As I slept, this strange combination of substances produced a dream. In it, a lady I know in Nashville had sent me a letter . . . the letter said, more or less, that she liked me a good deal, and that she was sorry she hadn’t spoken to me in so long. God, maybe she even used the word “love”.
When I woke I was so happy! I remembered this letter. I searched my room for it. And I knew that as soon as I found it I would write her back saying I felt the same.
The letter didn’t exist; it wasn’t real. Upon realizing this I went into the kitchen and joylessly made six little tacos and a French press full of black coffee. And I sat down at my desk and ate those tacos and drank that coffee while Dopesmoker chugged on from plastic speakers. I stared at the tarot cards hung above my desk, The Hermit and Death, and felt absolutely nothing.