N. J. Webster

Dream 5, Year 661

I used to live with a smoker who woke me up every four hours in lieu of rent, but he moved out, tired of my morning shrieks, my midnight panic.

Each of my dreams lasts 1,000 years. Sometimes alone, sometimes in crawling desperate slums, and sometimes here, with you. I’ve lived centuries in automated jungles and villages of amber, I’ve begged and governed. I’ve seen the sun sick and the ocean a sluggish violet. Sometimes I read, but the worn books contain only what I contain. And sometimes I’m here, with you. And I don’t want to wake up.