Dream: September 14th

I’m an old man in a Victorian prison cell with a tiny brown mouse. I’ve grown a long, tangled beard. The mouse has begun a campaign of writing me notes using the scraps of paper I have collected. He dips his little feet in my inkwell and tries to spell out messages on these little scraps of paper. When he’s filled a corner of the page he tears off the sheets with his teeth. These messages I discover arranged across my lap when I wake up, crowded with jumbled characters. These messages I can make no sense of.. I gesture with my shoulders a gesture of futility. The mouse only redoubles his efforts. In his frustration he crawls into my beard and scratches and pulls at my hair before he zips off to write another note I can’t read and doesn’t make any damn sense because he’s a mouse and I’m human. For some reason I feel so sad for him…

This aftertaste of sadness lasts until after I wake up to cold, gauze-covered autumn sun.

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About autonodrom

25, male.
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