I’m dismantling the Kris Kristofferson shrine on my timeline now. Parts of it, at least. I must be reasonable. After all, I’m still alive. There will be more time for despair when I’m dead. I’ll keep a few photos up, my favorites, and try not to add any more as the day wears on.

Last night, I dreamed I was inside a frozen water droplet that was also a cell and an egg and the earth and the multiverse and the brain and the mind. It was the past, present, and future: all the possible pasts, presents, and futures. It was sliced horizontally all the way through as thin as sections of the human brain before examination in an electron microscopic.

Each section was an alternative reality or a past or a biological process unfolding or a sunrise or a volcanic eruption or a building full of people doing telemarketing in a sea of cubicles. There were openings between the sections, hidden passageways. On one side toward the bottom, there was a hemangioblastoma that was red and throbbing. It grew a little anytime something new was added to the droplet.

The droplet and the tumor had to grow at the same rate, otherwise the droplet would be compromised and eventually break. They grew together when individual worlds grew, new universes were born, humans and animals evolved or made new discoveries, things like that.

But trauma was different. It made the tumor grow but not the droplet. The tumor was growing fast, much faster than the droplet. You could see it encroaching on the rest of the droplet’s space, like retinal blood vessels into an eye’s vitreous body.

There was too much trauma in our cells, in our eggs, in our earth, in our multiverse. There was too much trauma in our waters. I woke up before the droplet burst.