*****
Frantically, Tom sprang upright in bed, soaked in sweat and breathing like an asthmatic madman. “Man, that was one bad-tasting fantasy!” he sputtered out of breath, before he focused and saw the nasty aperture in the roof. There were wood fragments and plaster bits from the ceiling distributed about the floor. The dresser doors were flopped opened, and his clothes were heaped and scattered in an alien-looking formation. The bedside table was tipped over, a gifted porcelain lamp was smashed to pieces; and his cellular phone was crumpled into a mangled mess. He rubbed his eyes to help clear his vision. “I must be sicker than diagnosed,” he whimpered as he dozed off on the pillow.