When there are too many things culminating into one large raging storm of anxiety in my life, I have developed a way of shoving it all deep into a place—a vault of sorts—where I can slam the door shut and lock it. Will all of those things come spilling out one day when there is no longer enough space to hold them? My dreams of Dex are an obvious indication that, yes, that is very possibly the case. Things are now spilling out from a deep, humiliating place into my waking life.
I must be mistaken that he's the same man from my dreams. It's ridiculous.
I was descending into a state of panic in Lawson's office yesterday when Dex arrived, and it must have just been that strange congruence of emotional factors and lack of sleep that created the idea. Lawson had just suggested I could get arrested for the favor I agreed to do for him. It was clearly a moment of panic-induced psychosis.
