I am plagued by elaborate violent dreams, with witches and serial killers and carnivorous plants, and terrifying weapons with multiple curved blades. This puts me in the mood to write a horror story, or at least read one, preferably on the shady front porch with a glass of iced tea.
I am convinced that we all experience time differently, that it moves at a fluctuating pace and we can sense this but do not possess the technology to prove it. Time has sped up as I've gotten older. Perhaps this is true for everyone. Perhaps I can expect the next cycle to feel like a temporal slowdown. I spend too much time thinking about this sort of thing. Right now the normal people are probably thinking about concerts and barbecues. I am wondering if time is real...if it actually exists or if it's just another social construct.
Clearly, I'm having a bout of anxiety. Here's hoping I can confine it to a tiny, tangled knot of ganglia in my brain.