She fell asleep worrying about the tremor in her heart. She awoke wondering about the tension across her skull. Maybe she really was critically ill. Maybe she should see the doctor. Those late-night and early-morning hallucinations of gunshot riots, rabbiting politicians, redactive summit meetings, those rabid howls of the naysayers and cynics and dreamers and do-gooders, the sheer wall of white noise as rhetoric reflects ceaselessly around an almost voided mind and beats hard through the bloodstream in a fast, mounting surge. She was dying. She went to the doctor. The doctor confirmed her suspicions. Everyone is dying, he said.
What dreams they are I do not care. I supply only the seeds of dreams, carefully cultivated. The seeds that make you close your eyes. The seeds that put you to sleep. Deep, endless sleep. I send the seeds, registered, to Arizona: to doctors who are experts in that field, to patients who are ready, who have earned those dreams, who are chained to them. I do not see dreams flourish; am not of their world. But I till those felons’ earths with a sickle and a scythe, a farmer who does not look to see what lives, what dies.
Yesterday had ended in thunderstorms but now it was hot again – the sky grey and full with moisture. At the bottom of the stairs was a dead rat. The doctor scarcely noticed it as he passed by on his way to work. He walked briskly, nodding to the man from the council who was picking up litter and the tiny hunched lady who had been to the station to collect her free morning paper. He had no time for meaningless headlines. In his pocket his phone vibrated.
I am not well, said the message. I have caught it too xxx