The stuff of dreams

Wow, this Remeron pill that my doctor put me on is some serious stuff. It's been impersonating a young Mike Tyson the last couple of nights and each time I've hit the canvas I've gone on to have some of the most vivid dream marathons I can recall. It's like my days now pale compared to my nights. I spend the day clicking on things or walking somewhere, just sort of passing time in vague anxiety and wondering where the meaning is. Then at night I'm traveling back through the roots of reggae music and culture, from rock steady and ska to Rastafarian mythological origins. Or I'm spending a week or two with Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny shooting the X-Files and palling around in the evenings having dinner, going for drives, and discussing the difference between living in England and the US (for some reason, they're both English and the show is based in Old Blighty). Or I'm hanging out in a Chevy S-10 pickup with Morrissey talking about our best friends growing up, alienation, drugs, and the ineffable sense of loss that surrounds cemeteries and ruins.