Sleepwalking, who needs it? It’s like meditation, only worse.
Me, you, us, as zombies, the undead, roaming around the house, bumping into furniture in the middle of the night.
It’s like some eerie twilit world. Twigs cracking under your feet, wolves in the forest, trolls under a bridge.
And all this supposedly happening here, right in front of you, in your own flat, just off Victoria Road?
I hear people sleepwalking in Govanhill all the time. Top floor up above, downstairs underneath, next door left and right. Cheers, tenements. They’re madness too.
How do they remember to stay upright? Is their blood still flowing round their bodies and do their toenails keep on growing?
Nobody knows. You could get up to all sorts of things during the night and be back in bed asleep before you know anything about it.
Solve cosmic mysteries, witness intergalactic revelations, attain some fleeting oneness with the universe.
You know, like after drinking ten cans and passing out on the couch.
Because that’s what happens when you become temporarily free of the conscious mind.
Once you get your head round that your brain will finally be at rest.
I know. I’ve been there. I’ve tasted it.
Absinthe, man. Crunchy nut cornflakes.
I’m telling you.