“Yeah. It’s like that part of sleeping you don’t recall at all. The part you know you were part of, because the clock moved, but other than that, it is not there and never was.”
“Yeah. I have three and a half months like that to account for. That’s a lot of darkness with nothing to show for it.”
“Gone? Just gone?”
“Just gone. I’m lucky to remember what came before. Some of that is gone too.”
“Maybe you don’t remember the other side the way you don’t remember what went on before? Maybe you just can’t remember what was there?”
Papa Brown seems wholly unsatisfied. His eyes dart down into my divot as if there were answers there. His curiosity frustrates me and I try a different way of explaining it to him.
“Next time you are asleep-- I mean really asleep, not dreaming, but completely unaware of anything, unaware that you are asleep, unaware that you are alive, unaware that you are trying to ask yourself questions-- ask yourself what it is that you are thinking and feeling. Just say to yourself 'Hey, What’s really going on here?' You’ll see what I mean then.”
Papa Brown seems puzzled. He looks blankly at my golf bag and says, "That makes no sense. How can--"
His eyes are suddenly drawn to the head of my 4-iron, but not in time to prevent it from crashing hard into his temple. He falls into a green-side bunker. "Okay," I tell him. "Now's your chance."
Hey, What’s really . . . going on . . . he--
Opening: Scott from Oregon.....Continuation: Evil Editor