I'm not aware of too many things
Here's the ritual: The alarm is set for an hour before I need to get up. I move from the bedroom, close the door, turn on the radio, and spin out the extra hour I have floating between waking and sleep while on the futon in the living room as Morning Edition blares out the day's news.
This morning, for some reason, I was jolted awake by the news that Edie Brickell had committed suicide. The news got even more dire: Paul Simon was missing.
Two things: I'd forgotten that Edie Brickell existed, and I'd forgotten that Paul Simon married her.
Oh, and a third thing: I'd apparently dreamed that piece of news while listening to Morning Edition. All I can conclude is that Ayn Rand infected my pre-work slumber, and confused "What I Am" with "500,000 thousand dead Asians." Though how Paul Simon's missing body fit into it is beyond me.
This morning, for some reason, I was jolted awake by the news that Edie Brickell had committed suicide. The news got even more dire: Paul Simon was missing.
Two things: I'd forgotten that Edie Brickell existed, and I'd forgotten that Paul Simon married her.
Oh, and a third thing: I'd apparently dreamed that piece of news while listening to Morning Edition. All I can conclude is that Ayn Rand infected my pre-work slumber, and confused "What I Am" with "500,000 thousand dead Asians." Though how Paul Simon's missing body fit into it is beyond me.