Les cauchemars naissent la nuit is phrased to wear : deeply slipped dryly into your subconscious' wet tissue, dribbling a subtle impulse or a mega-memory from the boredom of your waking life. Feverish bouts of slumberic travel, severed from a walking reality but boiling over in grisly, surreal accounts that the body cannot deny happened, even if it did not happen in real time. Or something hyperbolic and way above the carny line.

Real Nightmare : Being in the nose bleed section of a Bruins game with 2 foot versions of the Universal Monsters. The element that drives it into being horrific, terrifying and night sweaty is not the sawed off horror icons, but the fact that I was sitting at a sporting event and not completely mad about it. A line I will draw in the sand with anyone : sports, sports employees and sport patronage is/are the true toilet seats for breathing. Gastrointestinal finger food seeped through a funnel of ocular excitement.