Last night I dreamt I was shot in the heart. I didn't much like this dream. The idea that if you die in your dream, you die in real life, was introduced to my young mind early enough in my formative years to still have a stronghold in my sometimes adult years. Whether my dreams are wondrous or nightmarish, they are always vivid. They might not appear every night, or even for stretches of weeks to months, but they are presented in glorious detail, if not artisticly rendered.

Do people who die in their sleep die in their dreams? Can we actually ever know this? Either this is conversation worth kicking around over a pint, or a thought only worthy to those who've indulged in multiple hits from the bong. I haven't been hanging around with Cypress Hill tonight, but this thought entered my head stone cold sober.

However vivid the dream was, my retention of details is poor. My brain has not been fitted with any type of cyborg Tivo to record this dream (without those fucking commercials), so all I recall is that there were some type of unsavory characters I was associating with, and I believe it was some type of doublecross on their parts (what can you expect from un-savories) that got me shot.

And when I say I was shot in the heart, it wasn't the anatomically correct, behind the breastplate heart location, Pulp Fiction OD Bitch adrenaline hypodermic heart. It was the upper left side, I pledge allegiance…, home of love letters and initials on school book covers and countless tomes of bad and good poetry heart. This can be analyzed however one chooses. I just was having some fun with that last sentence.

I want to go to be now. I'd like to go back in armed, and get those fuckers.

Hasta luego,


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