Not that dreams were much better. They were always bad. Not nightmares in the traditional sense--no monsters. There was just a constant feeling of being trapped, lost, and/or completely unable to accomplish a simple goal.
The eyes were nice, an oasis, but he still didn't remember those and never could while he was awake. But they were part of his dreams every night.
Mattress on the floor. Mess all around. Each waking was a new discovery of the world, as it seemingly generated in chunks around him, with considerable lag--his processing abilities couldn't keep up.
Chipped paint on the wall. Stains in the carpet. Clothes, and papers, and books he never read. And no light but the dingy sun filtering through a cracked and dust-coated window.
Muffled chaos from outside. Vague, generic, cityscape sounds. Aroma of banana peels and unwashed clothes and permanent tobacco.
Even awake, it felt illusory. Jittery frame-rate. Lack of concrete memories. Vague sense of deja-vu, like he was reliving tropes from all throughout literature and all artistic media (which he obviously was).
His mind was clouded, unable to process an original thought. He was stuck in observation mode:
Curtains orange. Bed brown. Wearing socks. Not wearing underwear.
A task--a goal. As some things fell into place, as the world gained structure and context, he knew something productive he could do--put on pants.
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