The writer wrote in bed the way a smoker might smoke in bed, carelessly. Until one morning he awoke finding he was impaled upon his own pen. All night long he had dreamed of pain, and now he woke up finding half the length of his instrument between two ribs less than inch from penetrating one of his ventricles.
The wound never fully healed, and some nights after tempestuous dreaming he would awaken to find his chest was leaking. He himself had become the pen, his blood had become the ink with which he unconsciously writes upon bedsheets blood red rorschachs, indecipherable maps, incomprehensible utopian manifestos. He tries to read the bedsheets but all they tell him is that he will never be an accountant. His obit will be the obit of a poet, a somnambulist who writes on the wall about his headboard, pushing his finger into his own chest. The words seem so important to the dreamer, but in the morning, nothing is remembered of the story and the blood on the wall is illegible.
Then the cops come, and even when they realize there hasn't been any foul play they still charge the dreamer for disturbing the peace.
Friday, July 06, 2007
The Writer Who Fell Asleep on His Pen
The Sandwich Man sometimes speaks in parables. Here is one of his proselytizations.