I don’t remember my dreams. Peaceful sleep is a void. Gaps in time. Sometimes, though, I’ll be out somewhere, doing something, and think: I’ve been here before. Cycles. Circles. Rings and spirals. Déjà vu. That’s how I know it’s not real.
Fiction
I always knew drowning was the way I’d go. When I was a kid, I would park myself in front of the refrigerator in the dead of night, a plastic cup in my hand. Over and over I would refill the cup with water and empty it down my garbage chute esophagus.
