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Detective | Oct 14 2005

This must be dream, I tell myself, I must be asleep, dreaming. The detective does not exist; he is the product of my unconscious. Unconsciously I desire Henry’s death and so I have killed him in my dream. In truth, Henry is still alive, and like me, he is probably sleep somewhere, dreaming. Perhaps he dreams my death as I dream his. Soon enough I will wake and find myself in bed, the nightmare over. And then in the morning I will have forgotten the whole thing. Perhaps I dream this same dream every night, every night conjuring Henry’s death. Remembering Don Juan, I look down at the palms of my hands and try to seize control of my dream. Be gone, I say, staring at my hands but addressing the dream world detective. Be gone, I don’t want you here. When I finally look up again, the detective hasn’t budged. I’m sorry, he says, I realize this comes as a shock.