t.a. miercoles, born at the hiccup of midnight on a tuesday, was putting himself in order in front of the mirror. he averted his eyes from his own gaze, finding something particularly unnerving about the way he stared at himself. running a comb through his hair, he turned away and sighed. the phone rang and he ignored it. some music was playing on his computer that he wasn't familiar with, yet he didn't stop to ascertain the song.
he had long flirted with the idea of leaving the town, but somehow had stuck to it like a barnacle. he preferred to spend his time alone, though found himself from time to time besieged by the urge to integrate himself into the social continuum. these urges passed, though not without leaving a slimy track of self-loathing across his brain. he spent most of his time asleep, though not by design, and slept the longest when he fell into it accidentally, propped in a chair awkwardly before his desk. after midnight, if he had put sleeping clothes on and slid beneath the sheets, he would lay awake for what seemed like hours, eyes pinioned open, fixed on the ceiling, waiting for a dream to sneak up and ambush him. he wouldn't call it insomnia. he slept enough.
and when he slept, he dreamed: big huge dreams, vivid dreams that destroyed him, his loved ones, the world. he escaped from cataclysm as many times as he fell into its gaping maw, talked wordlessly to strangers he had met before. little girls with pink tongues danced slavishly around maypoles. buildings collapsed and triads of old women fumbled foolishly with knitting needles while pointing and laughing at his tireless effort to save someone from the rubble.
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