For years, I mean years, I’d see faces as I drifted off to sleep, faces contorted in agony, twisted in pain, mouths open as in a scream, the images morphing into one another in swift succession, women with wild eyes and streaming hair, men, children, too, their features vivid, no two alike, nobody I’d ever seen, strangers, all. If they had been wired for sound, they’d have been howling; if they had been dreams, I’d have been howling too. But hypnagogic images, images that dance on the inside of your eyelids in the liminal stages between wakefulness and sleep, are strangely affectless; they float like bubbles on the mind’s eye, no feeling attached to them — unlike dreams, which are hooked into the deepest emotional centers of the brain.

At times, the images were wild, wacky, hallucinatory: a friend sprouts the trunk of an elephant, a tree blossoms into human hands, then I’d be hovering over a giant cathedral or gliding down a river canyon. The elephant, the cathedral, appeared only once, dissolving into the darkness from which they came; the river canyon was —> Read More Here


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