Some are born to sweet delight,
Some are born to endless night.
William Blake, c, 1803
He went to his current home, a hilltop apartment in old Hollywood where many of old Hollywood have lived and died here, and perhaps that is why he has been able to move in at such a deal. It is an old building itself, made in the twenties, with paint in need of retouching and perhaps some nails to be replaced, but it is one that holds its history comfortably, never forgetting those who laughed or cried here, or still do. The lingering scent of other lives, whether happy and fulfilled or of desperation and disappointments waft through the hallways.
He then fell into a troubled sleep, nagging vague worries poked at him, and he is annoyed, aggravated, and then eventually tortured.
He does not like this dream at all, confused why he cannot wake up, cannot be shocked into a sweaty wake.
He thinks to himself, health affects the mind, and so affects the hidden parts on the mind, the dreamscapes. He admits that he is not in perfect health, does not exercise often enough and he is getting older. Then again, he also maybe spends too much time alone, and that invites darker thoughts into any peace he may have.
Then again, maybe this happens at night, and this is all a visitation into this old house, this old apartment.
So, I’ve got two options: exercise or exorcism. Great.
He runs for safety, home, and makes it, and finds himself there, grabbing at sheets scissoring legs, and face roiling but never waking.
He carefully approached his prone self which immediately raised his arm, apparently to shield himself against himself, and turned himself away.
He runs from the room, down the stairs which creak, not with each panicked step but in one pulled groan of wood, drying and dying.