Apologies for the delay, but I’ve been laid up in bed with a lurghi. I don’t know what it was – some kind of virus, I guess – but for a couple of days I could barely move myself from my duvet. It wasn’t great (particularly as Julie was in work, so I was alone and groggy for a lot of it), but at least I know that no stranger has been in my flat for the last week or so. True, I spent a good part of it asleep, but there was no sense of anyone else – there was just sick, old me.
What hasn’t been so reassuring is the dreams. They have been truly fevered and dreadfully weird. The old familiar ones have been replayed again and again – sometimes at high speed, sometimes seemingly all at the same time. But there’ve been new ones as well, detailing in fresh and horrible ways how the world will end. Yet more than that, I’ve had dreams about how things will look when it’s all over. What our world will be after the cataclysm comes, when the survivors try to pick up the pieces and put them back together...
Something is coming and I seem to be getting the previews.
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