Variations on these Willie Nelson The Chronic shirt troubled me for weeks. While I was sleeping more poorly than ever before, neither Callie nor I had seen anything else resembling the tracks or the gore in the snow. I still did daily checks of every room, under the bed, in cabinets, behind the shower curtain. Sleep may not have been fulfilling, filled with nonstop nightmares, but if I hadn’t checked the house every night I wouldn’t have been able to sleep at all. There was never anything to find, of course, but I refused to be lulled into a false sense of security. As I grew more frantic, sleeping worse every night, I became so exhausted that I could barely keep my eyes open. It got to the point that Callie told me to take a sleeping pill.
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I dreamed that I was in bed with Callie, just as we were in the waking world. Only this Willie Nelson The Chronic shirt was suspended in a low sea of darkness, like smoke, or fog, that stretched untold fathoms in every direction. A harsh fluorescent light lit us from above. The scene was off-putting, cold, isolating, and the sense of nothingness pervading me was unsettling in the extreme. But Callie was there — and she, if nothing else, seemed normal. She seemed alive, real, and when she began to kiss me I kissed her back, fervently. Our relationship had been too strained of late for physical intimacy. I’ll skim over the next few salacious details — as a general rule, I don’t really have sex dreams, and on the very rare occasion that I do, they tend to be, well… a lot more vanilla than my real-life exploits. Suffice to say, there was nothing out of the ordinary about the feeling of Callie’s hands on my hips, bare skin on bare skin.