What do we do when we sleep?
The last thing I remembered last night was closing my eyes, planning to read for a while after just five minutes’ of shut eye. The next thing I know there’s a pheasant tap-dancing on the roof, Christa is pounding the microwave in the kitchen and it’s time to wake up.
I’ve lost eight hours of my life. That’s enough time to get dressed, drive half way across the country, murder someone and come back. I’ve got a secret fear that might be what I’ve done. Really, I’d never know. While we sleep, we could all be somnambulist murderers following a primal urge to kill someone. They do say that sleep is a stress release, and what’s more therapeutic than murdering someone? It goes a long way toward explaining why George Bush always looks so happy. Heh.
Of course, I suspect that I just lay there, lost in dreamworld while my body recharged.
Still doesn’t explain the blood on my hands though
(Mental note to self: this would make a good plot for The Grey Scribe).