I’ve found myself dreaming like a raptuous operatic singer.
At night, I take sleeping pills and my dreams give me the feeling of Unreal Unreality, since I’ve been so used to dreaming with my eyes wide open. Now, I’m like Alice in Wonderland, thru the looking glass, meeting magical visionaries with visions so baffling. I’ve never considered sleeping pills before. Now, a new world is opening up from under my feet. Behind closed eyes, there is movement as passionate as summer nights.
Like everyone, I got into my death-obsession phase. I pondered endlessly about death (my sister psychoanalyzed me and came up with the conclusion that all this had stemmed from my fascination and empathy with the character Thui of Miss Saigon). It was a bizarre phase, but almost imperative.
I could write a novel just staring at one tombstone. And it wouldn’t be about death, it would be about life. Or it would be about how the line drawn between the two subjects is too thin.
