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When I look back down to start digging again, I see that woman, and she is laying face down. That
damn woman that haunts my dreams. That damn woman who won't tell me who she is. I start to
turn her body, and before me I see a woman who resembles my mother.

After I wake up I try to figure out what it means but all I can really come up with is that the dream
when I'm in the utopia and this dream mean something, that they're connected at least in my mind.
If the woman laying in that bed in the utopia that I am leaving is my mother as well, then maybe
what I'm hoping for subconsciously is that my mother is in a better place now. In a peaceful place.
Or maybe that I'm willing to switch places with her if she isn't.

Before my father died my mother committed suicide. I believe she killed herself because she felt as
if she was born in the wrong time period or the wrong parallel universe. She didn't say it but I know
she hated most of the people she met. She hated them because she hated people in general, she
hated human tendencies and their lifestyles. Misanthropy.

She hated the imbalance in the world, and she hated the people who didn't care about it even more.
Her hate grew so much that it eventually consumed her and took away her life, literally and
metaphorically.

The one thing I could never understand was how she loved my father. How can you hate so many
people and find room in your heart for this one person. Now my father wasn't a bad man, but he
wasn't that great either. He didn't beat my mother, not with his fists at least, but in a way he did hit
her. He ignored her, and he didn't care how obvious it was that his work was more important to him
than his wife and his family. Somehow she found the strength to stay with him until she died.

After she died, my father realized how much he ignored her. How worthless he made her feel. His
guilt turned into physical body complications and then he eventually died. In a way they kind of
killed each other, but only in kind of a way.

I remember when Maria thought I needed help, that I needed to go see a psychiatrist or a therapist
or something like that. I saw her point, my mind was out there, so I decided to humor her and go
see one.

The problem with that was that the medication they were giving me was messing with my
memory, and in turn, I couldn't remember my dreams no matter how hard I tried. For two months,
it was as if I had no dreams. I couldn't live like that. I wouldn't live like that.

Chapter 19:
THE MURDER DISEASE

Few things are worse than the bad person who pretends to be good. The person in charge of a
charity fund who every once in a while steals from the funds, the law enforcement officer who
takes unusual advantage of his position among civilians, the politician who sanctions the murder of
thousands of people for his own gain. These people make the common criminal who does not hide
in plain sight respectable.

In a dream I had not too long ago I am sitting in a car waiting for someone. Time goes by and then