00:32 - October 15, 2002
certain death continued
......because... I had a dream that you died. And I only dream that people have died when they have actually died; never has there been a time when their dreamdying has falsely precluded their lifedying (oxymoron? 'lifedying'?) Grandfather, age eight. Great Grandfather, age six. Cat, age fourteen. It gets less often with age but it doesn't get any less accurate, and you, my friend, have dreamdied.
In a field full of flowers. You suffocated. Orange lilies cupped over your nostrils, obstructing your airflow. Moss coating your throat, a snapdragon snapping closed your lips. Your fingers convulsing around each tuft of grass you clutched. Fitting, the thing that killed you was what you kept running away to find; isolation, freedom, solitude. Flowers may not be sentient, they may not ask you questions, they may not call you on your lies, but they won't hear your cries for help, and if they did, they wouldn't care. We ignore their screams every day. Vegetarians, the compassionate lovers of life. Twist those stalks until they break, blow away the fluff, walk away, 'we romped joyfully in the green fields', it sounds so lovely. It is so lovely. It suffocated you right back.
Dead in my dream, blue, you don't have long now. It's creeping and oozing and slithering as it has been set into motion by, who knows, it could be my subconscious fucking treachery. The least you could do is give me a reason to stop crying.

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