and the image I have is of the wild sea at night. It would be slate grey and impenetrable by day but in the moonlight it is as dark as a British winter's night, foam and spray glowing like phosphor in the occasional flash of lightning. It is terribly cold and terribly deep. It could be Baltic, but you and I know it is the English channel, but it is not there. It lies between the reefs of my mind. Thoughts and ideas tumble with the waves. But they are not there. Lightning is the occasional flash of inspiration. But it is not there. I am swimming amongst the surface of this sea now, tossed and turned.
Shortly, I know I am drowning. Breaths taken above the storm tossed surface are as watery and as aery as those taken beneath it. Beneath is tranquil. Not difficult. Easy. I am struggling but the struggle seems hopeless. In this dream, I know it is vital to stay alive. Not for the dream, but the dreamer. I never had a dream so important. This is something I know. My last image is of my pale clawed hand clutching at the air above the surface of the sea. I have hauled myself out of the dream into bed. I am drenched.
Too much insulin.
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