It was about 4:30 am this past Friday morning when I was ripped from a dream that I would have rather been continuing to play a role in rather than being annoyed by the dinging that indicated I received a text. (I had recently read The Mind Is Flat in which the author claims that dreams are not in color; I can assure him that that was not the case at all when the incessant chimes began.)
“Meat Loaf is dead”
it said.
I saw it was from Henry Melrose, and I figured that he, a single man, either was suffering from insomnia and was going through the recesses of his refrigerator and thought he would share the findings with me or that he had had some Thursday for dinner and found out that it was disagreeing with him.
“!”
I replied. There were other responses that my addled brain filed through, but it would have taken too much work to input them.
He realized that I didn’t know what his message meant—I mean, it was 4:30 in the morning and I was in the midst of a technicolor extravaganza, the likes of which makes Bollywood productions seem drained—and added:
“The singer”
I then discovered that the structural integrity of the iPhone is better than I had imagined, outside of the diagonal crack on the screen that formed as a result of the encounter with an immovable object, a.k.a., my wall.
