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epitome of incomprehensibility
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I'd like to read the Samanta Schweblin novel again.
But that was a long, connected narrative. My actual fever dreams the night before last came in short, shallow episodes connected only by a sense of frustration:
-Dad is stalled in his effort to create an interactive website based on the Psalms because "the H sounds are different in different languages"
-I'm in bed, trying to reconcile my fear of dying and disappearing with my fear of eternity; I ask myself, frustrated, "What will satisfy you, then? How can there be a compromise?" and then I'm downstairs and a possibly malevolent child takes a calculator and says, "If you have an exponential amount of lives, will that work?" while pressing buttons, but the number 128 also scares me
-The only way to escape is not to contemplate linear time but to move sideways: to be something other than myself.
-The calculator display, which is also a YouTube comment, diagnoses me as
"99% likely ADHD
12% likely autistic"
and after I decide that being autistic would be a way to escape myself, the text strikes me as funny and I think "Oh, this is weird, I should write this on blather" but I can't figure out how to get on the website and the numbers keep changing (possibility of ADHD goes down to 76% at one point)
-I'm in bed again; I can jump out of my bedroom window onto the roof of the next house, but I can't figure out how to fly farther because I can't do anything "too unrealistic"
-I go downstairs to escape through other windows, but disc-shaped cartoon monsters keep appearing and blocking my way
-I get angry and decide to join the monsters; with them, I can go outside, but just in the backyard, and they make me fold newspapers a certain way to try and summon a sophon, the imaginary subatomic particle described in the sci-fi novel The Three-Body Problem (don't you hate it when cartoon monsters make you do that?)
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