Dream Journal: The Rising Tide

Subconscious Log // Entry #42

Date: Tuesday (I think) // Location: Brooklyn Apt 4B

Recovered from a salt-stained spiral notebook found beneath a water-damaged mattress. Several pages are stuck together with a thick, iridescent black residue.

The dreams are changing. It used to be just the sound of the G train, but now the subway tracks are made of teeth and the tunnel walls are sweating oil. I woke up at 3:00 AM again. My pillows smell like the East River at low tide—dead fish and industrial chemicals.

"The tide isn't coming in from the ocean. It's coming up through the floorboards. It’s thick, like molasses, and it hums. If I close my eyes, I can see the city beneath the city, where the buildings are made of bone and the sky is a bruised purple."

I tried to call my sister, but the dial tone was just a voice whispering in a language that sounded like bubbles popping in mud. I think I’m forgetting how to speak English. The 'Buzzing' in my skull is the only thing that makes sense anymore.

Observations for Tomorrow:

• Check if the black veins on my wrist have moved past the elbow.
• Stop drinking the tap water; it’s starting to taste like copper and secrets.
• Don't answer the door if the man in the yellow hazmat suit knocks again.
• Remember: The Dreamers are just sleeping. We are the ones who are awake.

[NOTE: THE LAST THREE PAGES ARE SIMPLY THE WORD 'DROWN' REPEATED IN REVERSE SPIRALS]