"Wake up man!" He knew very well I was awake.
"You know very well I'm awake."
I poured more merlot into my glass, which was not empty, to give me an excuse to stay.
"Yes we both know you're awake, but we must go now and you look less than ready."
He was standing; clearly ready, while I sat before him at the side of a square table pushed to the wall; clearly not.
"I just topped up my glass. Stay a moment for me to finish it."
I'm not entirely sure, as I was trying not to listen, but I believe his expression, as he stared at my underbelly, said something about that excuse not working two bottles into it.
At this point he confiscated my glass, much to the protest of my glazzy eyes, but leaving the bottle, which after my last generous helping, was no longer a threat and as he was sloshing it into the sink said the following:

"This is the time of leaving, for both you and me, from this place. With haste, preferably, as we will not be late for wherever it is we have to be"

"Where is it have to be?"
"I don't know. What I do know is that I don't want to be late for it."
"Very well we're off" and with that committed statement I very convincingly, very drunkenly, fell forward onto the linoleum floor; hitting my skull against a sturdy wooden leg of the table.
At this point I took the opportunity to accuse myself of severely misjudging the wisest direction in which to fall. Little familiar-from-fiction black spots formed around my vision and I heard him proclaim something like "That would have looked utterly staged if it wasn't for all the blood" as I very conveniently fell into a deep sleep.

"Wake up man!" I shuddered awake, naturally lifting my hand to the clotting patch on my forehead.
"Lower you hand. It's fine." I lowered my hand; it seemed fine. "You're here because you're incredibly sleep deprived." Apparently he knew why I was here.
"I had no idea." I took my seat, feeling rather uncomfortable as my table and walls were gone, now in the middle of a large room with a concrete floor.
A queerish perversion of my previous company stood before me in a stark grey trench coat; conflicting with my memories of a fashionable pink floral one he wore not a moments earlier.
"You didn't?"
"Not the slightest."
"No point in lying here man, these walls only hear the truth and I already know it." What walls?
"So why ask me for it?"
He pulled from his vest pocket a gold non-descript lighter and commenced to fire up a white non-descript tailor cigarette, staring at me condescendingly all the time.
Very patient; very cool.
Perhaps humoring was in order.


"I find a certain appeal in being incredibly sleep deprived.
It's so incredibly calming to know there's nothing else the brain can do but shut down. No guilt for things left undone, you know?"

He looked at me, unconvinced, a moment too long to be comfortable. Though, humouring me, he responded appropriately:
"It seems that a potential problem has arisen and it is now our responsibility to determine whether it is something to be amputated or let alone.”  He continued “To feel 'guilty' about things being left undone suggests a paranoid nature; a self-conscious man answering to a higher authority. If all agree that conscious existence is the possession of choice and the ability to apply it then I think we could also agree that if everything was done then there would be no need for existence."
One of his cigarettes had made its way, not at all by anything I had done (besides not refuse), into my mouth. It hung limp and I coughed slightly with eyes wide and vacant. I was thinking.
The chair piped up instead of me.
"But what of waiting in the expectation that time will eventually bring something to do?"
I jumped/fell drunkenly (partially from the blow to the head, partially from being drunk) sideways to escape my schizophrenic hallucination that the chair was also against me.

"Then everything would not be done as the waiting period has yet to be completed. However, that being said, I believe we could go on just as easily to define not doing anything as an activity and get into trying to exist non-existantly. Though here we stand, on the edge of a logical cliff, leaning into the wind over the void of word games that should be considered mere trivialities."

As I fell I had hit my head again. I watched him, unresponding, expecting to wake into my true kitchen, having received a second concussion in concussion induced reality.

"Take your seat."
"I'd rather stand." I staggered upwards for a while and eventually got to my feet.
"Take a seat right over there." The chair sidled towards me and I found myself taking a seat.

“In a moment you will wake and when you do you will feel sleepy.”-
“You sound like a hypnotist.” I accused.
He handed me a greenish blue pocket-bible sized book.
-“and when you see this sign it’ll mean life is finished with you.”

The chair hardened, losing its animated assistance to my captor, the varnish once again coating its cheap pine interior. My head hurt and I lay forward onto my table.

(My table?!)

“You uncunning barstard. Thought you’d pull the drunk one on me eh? Not going to happen my friend. You’re here, you’re awake, and we’re going out.”

I was disorientated. “Where?” I was shaken and submission
“Just out. We’ll have fun.”