20 november

No tossing, then. I had the feeling that my muscles were under some sort of reconstruction. As if at any moment I might catch a glimpse of a tiny character scampering over my elbow with a small pick ax. Is that one word? Pickax? A hammer, then. A tiny less-than-Lego army of construction workers and doctors and nurses and miners and architects. Some would be shaking their heads. Some would be poking things. Some would be shouting in less than audible language in a surely foreign language something that would roughly translate as “WE CAN REBUILD!”

With this groaning and stretching sensation in my muscles and my real concern for crushing these hypothetical little people, I went back to sleep. As if my dreams would make more sense than this reality.