Smoking weed fogs my dreams. I rarely remember them ... Last night though I had like a Super-8 nightmare that began on a settee next to a guy whose forehead pointed stag-like close to mine. He wore a sweater but you could tell he had muscles. He considered himself a fighter. I'm not a fighter, I told him while my internal voice said: You're a wimp Peppy, a weasel, spineless. My mom was in the room too and I realised this guy was her boyfriend. Then the scene shifted. We stood in a village square or a pub garden. There was a gang of scally types and I talked to one whose face I forget but hanging from his jeans was a silver Hensley chain. Super-weirdly, Karl Ove Knausgaard then appeared. He was taller than me. His face was vivid. I could see his wrinkles, his unshaven growth as we chatted but the words were muffled and then he pointed or I pointed above the rooftops at a mountain peak similar to the Montagne Sainte-Victoire and tears ran down his right cheek. Karl Ove was weeping. It was the realest instant of the realest dream I have had in a longish time. But then my mom said: We gotta go. So she and I left the village and I wanted to tell her who I had just met but as we traipsed thru foggy dew streets she was moaning about the boyfriend and I got the impression she was going to damage his car. He had a VW Beetle. While she was complaining, however, we saw on a wall this massive cat. Its fur reminded me of peacock feathers and she grabbed it but its body was too big. I said: No, no. Beyond the wall was a short drop but when I looked over the edge she was falling in slowed motion and the height seemed to increase so it was like looking out of a tower-block and she was getting smaller and smaller and the drop bigger and bigger and I could hear her yell. It echoed. It was terrifying. She and the cat hit the pavement. Did I see blood? I was sure there was a puddle. Then I woke.
