The ringing in John's ears is almost as loud as the whirring and clicking of the fan above, whirling on the ceiling. Thinking of helicopters and Nam he feels just like Martin Sheen in Apocalypse Now -- but he feels like the world is ending without even bothering to get up. Or going all the way Laos. Was it Laos? Cambodia? Somewhere in the jungle, definitely. Yeah, and down some river. But right now there is no Doors playing. There isn't even a stereo of any kind. The sun light reluctantly runs through the blinds in a futile attempt to rinse the artificial dark of the room. A fly, buzzing lazily, finds its way to John's face and lands. Trying hard to stay awake (but why?), he raises his arm to wipe the insect away, knowing perfectly well that it will eventually return.
With eye lids as heavy as lead it is so hard just not to fall asleep. John concentrates on the mechanical movement above him. Whose bed is this? Where is he? Did he sleep here? How did he get here at all? It's definitely not my room, he thinks. There is no fan in my room.
His last ties to consciousness are torn and he drifts off ...off ... into this weird world of dreams, that's you pass on your way to real sleep. When you're neither asleep and dream nor wide awake-- when you think you somewhere else, even if only for one second. And then you "wake up" again - -
So does John. What the...? For one second he was in some jungle, there flies, mosquitos and stuff. Humidity was even worse than now. He wore some kind of uniform, carrying a backpack horribly heavy. His heard is beating hard right now. Not really fast, just with so much intesity, that it might hurt. Maybe I should see a doctor, some time. First thing tomorrow. By the way, what time is it? Damn it. John rolls over, just then: the door is flung open. There is Mark.
"Dude... have you ever in a war, man?"
"...just returned," John manages to answer, mumblig. Then he is gone again.
Fucking movies, fucking Coppola.
