What Dreams May Come.

Since about three days after Christmas, I've been fighting this cold. I rarely get taken down like this, so I have to blame the toddlers who, on Christmas Eve, sneezed directly in my mouth, crammed their fingers in my nose, and slobbered over my plate as I tried to eat. The germs that children carry are potent. They kind of terrify me. That's all I can say.

So I've been up and down with this coughing and snot-making for weeks now I just calculated. I'll start to feel better and then the next day I'm beaten down again. Over this entire time, especially at night, I've been heavily medicated, which seems to have triggered my dreaming mechanisms to over perform.

I've had a few true-to-life dreams, but most have been completely preposterous, including last night's, which involved cyborg kittens. I can't make this stuff up. Which, if anything good can come from being this sick for this long, is that it's possible that some of these dreams may eventually be a muse for some fiction writing—a daunting task that I've been avoiding for...ever.

I'm dreaming, in real life, that I might be able to write someday with the caliber and the outlandishness of Etgar Keret. But because I'm not there yet, why not take a listen to this short story by him called "What Of This GoldfishWould You Wish?"

 I think you'll like it.