From FALSE TESTIMONY: COLLECTED WRITING by Paul Becker

I was done in. So many nights untroubled by even a whiff of sleep. Every time I began to nod off, I would come to with a start, the remembered jolt of every last knock, rapping along my spine.
I managed finally, sweetfully to sink off around seven for a couple of well-deserved hours. Storms again. Even my dreams refuse to let me alone, buffeting me around like bullies. This time it’s my Granny’s house on the estuary, the end shack at Dadyanov, reeking of fish guts and engine oil. Outside the tide was surging dramatically. Movement in the foundations. The walls were quivering and the tiles were flying off the roof like flicked cards. I was lying abed, the room was swaying about as though already at sea. Apparently I had no fear of the rising tide? My dream self must have had a child’s mind, too young for the awareness of danger. I could tell the wind was just a primer, an emissary for the Great Storm, the feast of wind that was coming straight across the sea, blowing in from the east; the true hurricane that tore through the town like a runaway train.