I stand there, staring at my reflection. Strange, almost alien patterns and writing in a language I've never seen before is all over my body, from my ankles to my fingers, various patterns streak across my usually blank skin. I'm not sure, but they seem to be labels, or instructions, for something. It's a weekend, and I was up late last night, perhaps I am dreaming. Changing from just underwear to some pajama pants, I walk out of my room. For a dream, this is incredibly lucid. Every detail is laid out, and as far as I can tell, nothing besides the tattoos are new, not even changed. I go to punch the sandbag on my way past it, as I usually do, but as I pull my hand back, I stop. The tattoos on the raised hand glow faintly, but their color changed entirely. It... burns, a little, almost, but somehow not the same. The light quickly fades after a moment, and I'm left confused. Alright, well, whatever. I refocus on the bag, the light returns, and loose a relatively light punch. As soon as my hand made contact and met resistance, it felt like a sledgehammer was being swung, within my arm. The light gets far brighter at the moment of impact. For such a light punch, the impact it made was far too great. The sandbag lurches, a small burn being etched into the surface, as it continues shaking and swinging.

I dont feel like writing more, it's the middle of the night, I'm tired.

Work in 30 minutes. Slept through the alarm again. Friday. I think. Yeah. Fucking Friday. Praise Buddha. Spring break on the horizon. Maybe the delirium will lift after a few days of rest. The kids are going to be wild today. More hellacious than usual, for sure. Didn't plan a lesson. Fuck it. Wouldn't matter anyways. Rarely does it matter in the jungle. I'll probably quit at the end of this year--what the fuck? 397 Westend Blvd. The flowing block script, so ornate. The lines, perfect. The delicate balance of purple, orange and sky blue--divine--like a cosmic sunset on a distant Goldilocks planet. BUT WHAT THE FUCK! Right across my fucking forehead. A splash of cold water across my face. Wake up you fuck. I've had lucid dreams before. Walking around my apartment--then it becomes a maze with no one to make love to at the end (and there are always pictures of my cats on the walls). I don't keep pictures of cats on my walls. The water trickles down my cheeks. The harsh light of the vanity is brighter now. I'm more awake than I've ever been. This should hurt. This should fucking be throbbing, itching. It's not. It looks...well...defined. Healed, most certainly. A touch to confirm this fuckery. Smooth. Smooth...smooth...fucking smooth. Early spring break.

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