"Well here I am, 2pm. What day is it?" -Jack Kerouac
'tis Tuesday, the night of my Death and Dying in Literature class, the class for which I was supposed to have read As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. I have read some of it . . . it seems to be a pretty easy read, I may well have it mostly finished by to-night . . .
In light of that assignment, I prolly oughtn't have been reading Mussolini and the Axeman's Jazz by Poppy Z. Brite. But it was good so . . .
I dreamt that Trisa and I lived on top of an icy mountain constantly assailed by violent storms of swirling wind, rain, and dark skies. One had always to yell to be heard over the howling cacophony.
One day, Trisa died. It was determined that she had fallen down one of the many enormous crevasses that dotted the mountain side.
I had scarcely begun to morn when it was discovered that Trisa had actually been engaged to a wealthy European prince who lived in an enormous mansion on a side of the mountain I'd never visited. So he was displaying the stoic-exterior-while-dying-inside thing to the press. And I remember thinking about how much I'd never known about Trisa.
I don't recall much else about the dream, except I think at one point I was trying to break into the mansion, and I ended up destroying one of its rain gutters on accident.