I dreamt that I was a murderer. Waking was horror itself, as I cast my mind back to the night before, focussed on the need to discover who was dead and dismembered before remembering that this was just the internal, the mind’s presentation of things past, imagined, or trying to comprehend, and that really there was no evidence to hide.

In the dream it was one of my friends. A fight. A victory. But such loss, and the realisation that I had to hide what I had done. And how?

This had been the dream. This was why I hadn’t slept well, the turbulence of my disturbed sleep waking her on so many occasions that, by the irony of morning, she was ready to kill me.

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