I don't see how any of this forms a coherent story. I want to think it does, that I'm just trying to run from the truth, but I literally can't see how this stuff relates to what the dream was actually about!
I head back to the bedroom, shoving the book back onto the shelf as I pass. What a waste of time. That book’s not worth the paper it's printed on.
Damn it all!
As I wander toward my bed, more symbols bombard me, begging to be looked up and overthought. I won't let them.
But as I lay awake and gently weave my arms around Monique, I can't stop thinking about them.
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