rejectomorph | Reset Forty-Nine, Day One Hundred Eighty-Five

There is a vague memory of interesting dreams Sunday, or maybe they were waking fantasies, but either way they are forgotten now and only the emptiness they might have occupied remains, like the ruined traces of an obliterated city. I think they were already mostly only memories when they were going on in my mind, whenever that was. But now no substance remains of days or memories or dreams, and time has melted into air that is the exhalation of centuries, an evaporating mist of what might have once been reality's ghosts. I'll go back to sleep but never see them again. If I wake up I'll have forgotten they probably never were and go looking for something that seems to have evaporated again.

But this chill in the air tonight. Now that is real. My skin knows it. I'll crawl under blankets and hide from it. That's how I'll know the blankets are real too. That's how the blankets will let me know that even I am real, memories or not.