It seems paranoid to even consider, but my nightmares are chasing me. Can you help me nail down my nightmares?
There's the dancing woman outside my window. She twists and turns in her long black dress. I never see her wearing a coat or rainjacket, and her hair is always in a ponytail. I've never seen her face either, because she always dances with her back to me. I just want to hear the music in her head, then we can kill the bitch.
Then there's the tsunami of balloons in the maintenance stairway at the office. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, to avoid the little breadboy in the mirror. I take the maintenance stairs to avoid the purple snakes in the normal stairs. The balloons don't seem that bad, but in the five flights up they start to suffocate you. And that awful squeaky noise as they rub together. No, we can't just pop them—obviously I tried that. They let out these human screams, like that of a mother watching her son be executed.
If these two weren't bad enough, there's this dog on the bus I take to work. When you first see him, nothing seems out of place. He looks like any other Yorkshire Terrier. Then you stare longer and realize maybe his nose is a little too big for his face, and his eyes are spread a little too far apart, and his claws are awfully long, and his fur is matted, and his wagging tongue is full of barbs. Then you realize he's alone, and he gets off at the same stop everyday at the waste management plant.
But you want to know the worst one? It's this typewriter. No matter how many times I throw it out, it ends up here on my kitchen table. And no matter what I type on it, the words change. They change into horrible things. Did I mention that other than me, anyone who reads something written on it dies? That's why they told me to keep the window open, so the pages can flow out on to the street.