Dream, Dream, Dream (CLFM 19)
I think Les’s poem killed me.
At least that’s what it looked like. Me in corporeal form, all floaty, wandering down a row of endless corridors with only a few scattered mice to scare.
Pretty much seemed like a death state to me.
“You hated my poem,” Les explained when I complained. “You couldn’t even say it had good rhythym or a nice line or two…”
“Well, it didn’t.”
That was the last I heard of Les for a while. Though I did find, in my roaming, a cute picture of a young boy and his mother. Family I guessed, though my memories of yet another life refuses to infiltrate my poor senses.
Instead I turned my thoughts to Les. What was he? Certainly more than a figment of my imagination. Though I could wish for nothing more than this all to be one crazy assed dream about to come to an end. Unfortunately no one ever woke me up, so I guess it wasn’t.
Les, though, was a lot more, or a lot less, than he seemed. His random acts of mischeif always did some good…