Supplicating My Past Fears (Doot)

Clint Mansell. The Kronos Quartet. Requiem for a Dream. “The Hope Overture.” Strings . . . Violins, cello, bass . . . Viola? Don’t know.

“What I dream, it’s mostly about dying.”

The air is thick, and my breathing has been bad, lately; the seasons are changing, and that always fucks with my sinus pressure or whatnot. My throat is full of mucous, and my chest rattles when I inhale—it’s rather fucking aggravating, if you ask me. I wish it weren’t Spring, I don’t like it when the Winter goes away . . .

“I’ve been hung. Lynched. Shot. Drowned. Run over . . . By cars, by trains, by buses, by tanks. Beaten with bludgeoning implements. Or strangled. Stabbed . . . By loved ones, by enemies, by political figures, by celebrities, by movie characters and people from paintings.”

It’s cold? Why is it cold: it’s almost Goddamn May; and, it’s cold, in the stupid sixties. It’s always bright outside, when I look. Everything’s too bright, but that’s because my eyes are going bad. Fine, I can deal with this. I can deal with everything. What’s bad breathing, bad weather, bad eyes? What is it, really, in the end?

“I was crucified in a dream, once—the whole Passion of the Christ routine, all four stages. The Arrest, the Trial, the Crucifixion, the Resurrection. Or is the proper fourth stage the Transcendence? I don’t remember, but, in my dream, there wasn’t so much of any fourth stage. I was mostly beaten by everybody I knew and loved, put to trial—I couldn’t see the judge, jury, witnesses, so I just heard voices—nailed up, and left to rot. There was a poem I kept reciting within that dream; I woke up, wrote it down, and later realised it was perfect, fucking Iambic pentameter, Frost-style. Creepy shit.”

The music is over. The song ends, and the track changes. “The Beginning of the End.” This soundtrack puts me in a weird mood.