Look, I’m not going to sit here and tell you I understand how my own brain works because I don’t. Nobody does. But somewhere between the pillow and the place where your thoughts start running without your permission… That’s where I’ve been living for a while now, taking notes. Scribbling things down before they evaporate like a child’s sweaty handprints on a frozen window.
This book right here? It’s ten stories I pulled out of that in-between place. The liminal. The hypnagogic. The weird. The loading screen before reality boots up. I can’t tell you these are dreams because that would be a lie. Dreams end. These don’t. Not really. They just… relocate. They move into the corners of your house and accumulate. They start their own colonies with mites and spiders in condominiums of kitten fur.
If you ever woke up at 3 AM absolutely certain someone was standing in your doorway and then you blinked and they weren’t (but you still weren’t sure) then you already know what I’m talking about. If you’ve ever read something and felt like you’ve maybe read it somewhere before but couldn’t be sure… Welcome home, I guess.
If you like Neal Town Stephenson, Franz Kafka, André Breton, Mark Z. Danielewskim, and Haruki Murakami… You’ll enjoy this book.
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