by E. A. Toles

When one is in the grips of a fever dream, one often finds it is difficult to gain their bearings. Up is down. Right is left. Things of that nature. The whole selections of situations has deteriorated to complete and utter bat-shit. Waking is a lonesome, hateful task. Many of us are not capable of shaking off the magic dustman’s boon. Instead, we are locked in the dream. Eyes shut tight against reality. We see shadows of a life outside of our own and nothing more. For years, we are sweating balls and pussies in our beds, trying to make sense of these insane amalgamations and visions that plague us, fighting before our ever moving eyes. Locked in many forms nightmares.

Here we have the man who wakes up forty years into his life: did I do that yesterday? Christ what is today? How many meetings did I have? I didn’t call the client…or was that today’s client? Have I always drooled so profusely and when is that my teeth began to fall out…hm…I still have my wisdoms…

How is it that we are locked in these dreams for so long? Is there no one to rouse us?

The road is quiet this Friday night. Only nighthawks and fiends of a frightful nature are out at this time. Many of them are locked in their own fever dreams, this odd type of mass hysteria that seems to have affected everyone between the age of 21-34. Every weekend, their brains, livers, and genitals revert back to their carnal and evolutionary back-up files. There are some stragglers yet. Sometimes reaching up to the late early 60’s. We all comb through the streets looking for cheap drink. Some look for company. Others look for stiffer drinks. And a rare breed (the sort that deserve our admiration and canonization) are only out to quell the frightening sanity that rests at their feet, yipping like an angry Pomeranian.

My pint of beer dried in my blood some time ago. Now I am on the hunt. But today was pay day so the moon looks good to me, the stars are aligned in my favor. Sleep no more gentle god beneath the sea, tonight we wake and stalk the earth to slake our thirst!

Still, the night will become lonely and tiresome. There may be a thirst around the early beginnings of the next day but that thirst is eventually accomponied with the long stretch of isolation. That dreadful moment when you realize that the city is sleeping around you and there is a large chance that you might be the only person awake. You don’t smoke because you’re quitting but you wish to god that cancer wasn’t among the cruelest jokes of the earth. But is that not the jest of all pleasure? Eating, fucking, drinking, and the rest of the big ING’S. All of them are fun enough to crucify the good ‘ol Lord with but spend to much time enjoying yourself and you’re dead. Rotten cock. Cunt full of sores. Chest and lungs black like the devil’s sassy fucking asshole. So why even bother? Is it not merely another sort of dream? A fever of another sort, so to say?

The whiskey does wonders for the heart, wonders for the hand. Steadies out the rhythm. I can almost see or count the spaces between each drink. Measured out in the clicking and clacking of plastic keys. But there aren’t any answers on this keyboard. There never were. I’d like to think that each of these letters was spelling out some kind of message to wake me up from the dreams but I know that’s a naive hope. A shot in hell. And Christ doesn’t pay attention to those shots. Neither does Allah or the Bhudda for that matter. The only person listening through the hiss and sizzle of the flames are you and me and Donald Trump and I doubt that any of us are in a situation to lend a helpful hand.

I have the life that I dreamed of as a child. Four, safe walls. A steady check. I even had a taste of the divine for a moment. Suckled at the great god tit for a bit. And all was vanity. A shadow of light beaming into my closed eyelids – so bright that it almost woke me. Sometimes I think that I might be awake. Maybe the dreams are the incomprehensible horror that plays out when I lay down, only to be forgotten the next day. Or perhaps that is what I say of those clock-ins and clock-outs when I am actually awake.

It’s too much to bother with. Fuck it. Hang them all out to dry and whatever is kicking in the morning may have supper. What of it all? The fever will take us all at some point. It cannot be denied. Our brains will bubble along with our blood and we’ll see ourselves cut open and displayed for visitors on Saturday and Sunday brunches.

How are you doing? That’s a cute tie. Adorable dress. Are these your kids? You got how much in tax returns?

But for now, I have a small bottle of Jim Bean to hold me over until tomorrow. And I count down the days until Monday.

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