I was giving myself CPR
While two gunslingers trashed my guitar.
Yet, perverse as it seems,
I’d give forty such dreams
For the way that things actually are.

At first glance, this verbatim account suggests the heart-stopping hold any delicate possession exerts on us. At second glance, it appears impenetrably stupid. Yet, as an afterthought, perhaps we should ponder the worries and woes of waking life, and deplore the feverish parodies of it that are discharged by a toxic subconscious as we reluctantly escape from sleep.