Well Bottom Blues

Enough of this Odysseus in space shit: the intricate plots, my almost lucid character, rational and irrational fitted closely like the parts of a wooden puzzle ball I am desperately trying to disassemble to solve for some hidden x at the center before the virulent alien thing consumes the intricate space station.

This is not a CPTSD nightmare tied to some tangible and terrible life event, or the once persistent visitations in sleep by my ex, she of the 1,000 and many passive aggressive texts I saved in case we had to go to court to show I was not gaslighting and she was quite mad.

Lucid dreaming must be swell for the perfectly well adjusted who have never struggled in their sleep against something both realistically mechanistic and Lovecraftian evil on an intricate cinematic scale somewhere between Anderson and Fellini.