How sleep deserts me in my need. How I long to fall into the abyss of dreams and forgetfulness. Tomorrow, tomorrow I shall die, or tonight, or was it yesterday? I do not know. Are my hands red with blood? In the darkness of my room, trying desperately to fall into sleep, I find here on the borderland of dream such terrible witness: my hands are wet and sticky with his blood. I know, know now from experience, if I rouse myself and turn on the light, I am only awake, awake and clean—clean in the eyes of the law. Have I hidden the deed? Have I disguised my act? Still, guilt, remorse, a sad ghost…
…all my troubled dreams.
Tale Told 