Dillion had trouble sleeping that night. The dark walls felt as though they were closing on him – he felt suffocated by his room. He was laying on his back, with his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. He had only one thought on his mind: that this world was not real. All these crazy hallucinations and occurrences could not possibly be happening, he thought to himself. Either he was crazy, or he was in some sort of nightmare.
He tried to determine whether he was crazy or not. He needed some sort of test, but how could he test himself? How could his mind determine whether he was insane if that was where this disease resided?
How could he determine whether this was a nightmare?
He stopped thinking about it, and attempted to go back to sleep. His eyes had already become accustomed to the darkness, thus making it difficult to keep them shut. He looked around his room: bookshelves filled with books his wife had once read, an antique lamp his wife had once owned, jewelry she had once worn.
He couldn't take it any more. Grabbing his pillow and a sheet, he went to the living room and attempted to sleep on the couch.