A visitor

I came back from work today and had the sense that someone had been in my apartment. The door to my fuse box was slightly ajar, which is odd. The pink Financial Times that usually sits on top of a pile of magazines and papers on the kitchen table was next to the pile. Were things this way when I left, did I really just forget what my apartment looked like in my morning haze? It didn’t feel right in my head.

Last night (or maybe it was this morning, I couldn’t tell), I was floating in and out of sleep and dreaming. I was in bed and there was an old skeletal man lying next to me, on top of my new covers, with his eyes closed and snoring, breathing. He wouldn’t stop and it drove me mad, then scared by my own madness.

This stuff never ever means anything.