there are more dreams, only nightmares this time. at least she thought they were. but the truth is, the dreams and the real world had already begun to emulsify (she didn't do it on purpose). but when she saw the water beginning to boil and failed to remember setting the kettle, something inside her brain twiched. actually it was more like a ripple, a microscoping wave of doubt. and she wondered if perhaps, by some absurd chance, things had metamorphosed again without her knowing it. the lights flickered and goosebumps spread across her skin as she began to finally feel the rage building up in her stomach, like a blackened, crevassed lump of some foregin excrement. it wasn't remorse, or guilt, or desire, but unadulterated, insatiable wrath.
and she wished him great suffering.
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