I dreamt of smells; gasoline and skunk, as stressful drops surfaced the humid summer night. Heart palpitations, neurotransmitters firing utter excitement. This was out of an action movie, just lacking a brutal fight. Although, a fight with oneself was the premise, a persisting and reappearing phenomenon catalyzing spontaneous creativity while conscious. It was an obsession after the eyes opened, a narrow symptom of the Asperger’s diagnosis. Surreal to modernity yet flaunting obscure beauty. Don’t know why or how it came to be; he was screaming, gargling wails for help, sunken-in; it wasn’t quicksand, but green slime. Lonesome except for the presence of trees and an abyss of a sky. He felt more pressure than anything else. No one could save him. And still, by the break of day, no one could pull him out. There was no use.