[Mr. Sandman - a dangerous lunatic?]
If there ever was a dream to make one to demand refund, and to cast serious doubts on Mr. Sandman's sanity, this was definitely it.
This time my trip to Slumberland featured an imminent court case against me, and they had gathered together all my alter egos by subpoena as material and character witnesses. One after another they testified as to how ruthlessly I had brought them into existence, only to gratify and justify my narcissistic and petty ego. With a growing sense of anxiety I listened to these harrowing statements which could not but lead into one inevitable conclusion: that my character was totally false and rotten to the core, that I was no good: a Public Enemy Number One to all that was proper and decent in this society. Most of all I was accused that I had demanded the right to define my identity (or more accurately: identities) always according to the present situation. Nobody knew if I was animal, vegetable or mineral. I was more slippery than an eel on vaseline, more evasive than mercury on a slide.
The court adjourned; my sentence being the harshest and cruellest of them all: that my own conscience was to act as my jury, judge, bailiff and warden, and I was to pass my own judgment on myself. The sentence was to be carried out on lonely, sleepless nights; in the impenetrable gazes of people, meaningful silences and the conspicuous absentness. I already started to suspect that even my shadow was more real than me; my suspicions grimly confirmed when I was given a restraint order to stay not nearer than four blocks, three parked Japanese cars and one menopausal (and therefore constantly irascible) metermaid away from my shadow; for whom, additionally, I was to pay monthly maintenance (that is, to my shadow, not the metermaid).
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