John doesn't wake up.

"Sleep is a funny thing. It's maybe one of the funniest, strangest, and scariest things about life. Yet we pay so little attention to it these days."

John couldn't recall who had told him, but somebody had, that "sleep is a funny thing".

Somebody had continued that statement with; "Every human being, male or female, young or old, smart or stupid, even weak or strong, had something in common."

John had tried many times, without much success, to summon the memory of who had told him this.

"And that something is sleep. You see, we're all slaves to our beauty sleep, or in some unfortunate cases, our grumpy sleep."

John had long since resigned from his quest to muscle any answers out of his brain, but the words kept floating up to the surface of his thoughts, like the small pasta numbers and letters in alphabet soup.

"We all have a separate room in our houses, just for sleep. And we go there everyday, like clockwork, or good catholics going to church every Sunday. We go to our bedrooms, we take of our clothes, lie down under a nice blanket, turn of the light, and lastly we close our eyes."

Maybe John had made up the words himself, and the forgotten about it. Memory is another funny thing, you can't trust it, not really. But you have to. Only memory can tell you about the past, but you never know if it's the past that really happened, or if it's the past you wanted to have happened. Or an entirely different past altogether.

"And after we close our eyes, like the good, little, obedient sheep we are, we gently drift into a deep comatose state, where our bodies are limp and disconnected from the surrounding world. And our brains, suddenly starved for sensory input and something to do, turns inwards and in the space of seconds, minutes, hours or days creates whole new worlds for us, and us alone, to roam and explore."

John is not a big thinker, unless wondering whether or not it's possible to make omelet without breaking any eggs counts as big thoughts, but John had a feeling about the words that haunted him. The feeling lived in his guts somewhere, though it had yet to pay any rent. And that feeling told him many things, but most often it told him that those words were big thoughts, really big thoughts. John had yet to decide if he should trust a feeling that squatted in his guts, he knew the policemen in movies and on TV trusted their gut feelings, but John also knew you shouldn't believe everything you saw on TV.

"The dream, we call it. That thing, that in the blink of an eye can create a vast empire for you to rule or conquer, a harem of lustful beauties for you to play with and make love to, or to ravage and ****. And just as quickly as it can give us anything your heart might desire, the dream can steal it away from right under your nose, and replace it with gruesome nightmares and haunting horrors from which there is no escape. They will chase you, play with you, trick you and torment you until the crack of dawn and the new day beckons."

"And when we wake up, from a dream that may have lasted only seconds, or maybe a lifetime, all is forgotten. It's as if the dream never was, and we go about our business during the day, until we once more hear the siren's call of sleep pulling us helplessly down into another dream."

John tossed and turned in his bed as the strange words were narrated in his mind, but he knew the bitter sweet mercy of early morning, the annoying alarm clock, and strong black coffee was just moments away. Yet he could not shake the feeling that something would go wrong today.

'Damn! I should practice more of that positive thinking stuff Stacy always nags about. If I allow myself to get up on the wrong side of my bed my day is sure to be ruined.' John thought to himself, in the gruff and sardonic voice that only he could hear.

"Getting up on the wrong side of the bed. An interesting expression, wouldn't you say, John?"

John jerked awake in surprise, or at least he gave it a brave try, as the recurring words addressed him directly. To the best of his recollection they had never done that before, yet when he thought about it they felt as if he had heard them before.

"There might be some truth to it. Depending on how your bed is placed in the bedroom, getting out on the wrong side might prove very conducive to morning grumpiness. Say, if the bed is adjacent to a wall any attempts to get out on the wall-side of the bed would put you in a direct time and space continuum conflict with the wall, seeing as the current laws of physics tend to frown upon two physical objects trying to occupy the same physical space at the same point in time. Depending on your current velocity at the moment the conflict occurs, it is entirely possible that it could result in a reduced mood and a certain degree of bodily harm. Not to mention..."

John managed to tune out the prattling words as he yawned and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He could hear the deep breaths from Stacy, his wife, who was still asleep next to him.

'That's unusual. Stacy's usually up and about long before me. Not that I'm complaining, I miss waking up next to her.'

John yawned again, feeling more and more awake by the minute. His cock lurched to life as well, roused by his thoughts of Stacy and the warm proximity of her body. John wondered for a moment if he might get lucky this morning as he looked at his sleeping wife.

The thick blanket hid most of Stacy's lovely curves, but John's memory and imagination had no trouble filling in the blanks. John could feel his cock pulse with the vigor of anticipation, the urge to dominate, to conquer and penetrate rushed through him. His heart sped up its rhythmic pumping, his lust sunk to the bottom of his stomach, like a heavy boulder it exerted an almost painful pressure against the base of his spear.

He leaned closer until he could inhale the familiar smell of her, the sweetness of her sweat, the remnants of the perfume and the faint smell of mild tobacco still lingering on her.

Her auburn hair was lying in a disorganized and tangled mess, yet it managed to perfectly frame her restful face. Stacy's almost translucently pale skin was accentuated by a modest spattering of freckles on her small nose and her dimpled cheeks. A thin sliver of saliva had escaped her full lips and in concert with gravity slowly made it's way toward her pillow.

John momentarily ignored the insistent throbbing of his erection, he wanted to enjoy the moment a little longer before he risked ruining it by waking he up.

He carefully peeled back the blanket, slowly uncovering his wife while taking in the beautiful sight. A few of the buttons on her pajama shirt had come undone during the night, and the shirt had partially slipped off her right shoulder. The result was a nice view of her ample cleavage as her considerable bust strained against the soft cotton of her pajama shirt. John hungrily took in everything he saw, he stared at he nipples as they made sizable dents in the cloth, even when she wasn't aroused they had a way of making their presence known.

The hot pressure in his groin demanded release, and soon, but just as he was about to start stealthily unbuttoning Stacy's shirt something drew his attention to the window and in turn to the rest of the room. Something was off, but John wasn't quite sure what it was. There was something strange about the light, it was almost as if a faint fog had filled the room. And it was unusually quiet, the house usually bustled with life at this time in the morning. They had five children to send of to their respective schools, two foreign exchange students (One from Vietnam and the other from Germany), three large dogs that usually did their best to tear the house down, and his niece Sandra who was visiting for a few days. Yet there was not a sound to be heard except for the steady breathing and occasional sleepy murmur from Stacy.

'Hmm, strange...' John puzzled.