Red Room Where the Writers Are

My house is filled with ghosts. The main ambassador, the one that can leave the basement and even the house is an evil looking caspar, although his head is more on the shape of a Hershey’s kiss. He is a nuisance, and scary more because of what he represents than what he is. All the real swirling fog filled ‘pit of Hell’ slowed down backwards tape reel stuff is coming from the basement. I’m alone, there is no sign of my parents, and throughout this terrible dream, there is an epiphany, a clarity, a meta-cognition if you will: I realize that I am going crazy, that I am going to have to go see a medical professional because normal people don’t hear and see voices and apparitions. I have recognized that there is something wrong with a constructed one-degree of separation. I wake up with a start.