Last night I dreamt that I was on a massive ship with skyscrapers. We could not leave and we would never reach our destination. Every so often, new people would arrive and they were terrified when I approached, for I was a ghost, haunting them.

Where does the vocabulary of dreams come from? Each morning I wake to the imaginary babble of fully-formed news reports and television clips while skating across sleep—where is the line between a dream and a hallucination, voices in the head?

My writing is too tight, balled up in repressed emotion and god-knows-what. Perhaps I should jack into the subconscious life, have more confidence, and let reason fly. Learn to keep the pen moving without pause. Describe the umpteenth day of statistics and doubt in this endless spring, the brutal sound of someone eating an apple in the other room.

Each night in 2020, I wrote a short post for a series called Notes From the End of a World because I wanted to etch these days into my memory. Before the world changed completely.
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