I saw in a dream, that in a giant barn-like cathedral,

where the bodies of birds hung upside downwhere mice run rampant and bags of grain stand against the walls, the dead congregate, because their fate is—

what a lot of lying, confusing, pretentious,pseudo-metaphysical crap.

Look out the window, fry some vegetables, play with your kid, anything,anything at all, just so that you can never say about yourself what Bukowski has one of his characters say:

I was gifted, am gifted. Sometimes I looked at my hands and realized that I could have been a great pianist. But what have my hands done? Scratched my balls, written checks, tied shoes, pushed toilet levers, etc. I have wasted my hands.

And my mind.

It’s no good: Poems/ Essays/ Actions by Kirill Medvedev 

Ciò che le aveva negato un seno e una faccia da donna, l’aveva compensata caricandole la mente di significati erotici.

P. Roth, Il teatro di Sabbath

Dysania is the state of finding it hard to get out of bed in the morning.

[…]

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

[…]

Philip Larkin, Aubade 1977