I fell ill on Fat Tuesday, and when I woke Friday, I found my 
tongue was coated with black.  I've always hated Mardi Gras, so I 
was relieved to be stricken at first.  Then I kept sleeping.  I woke 
up now and then for soup or a cigarette, always in bed.

     I'm pretty sure I dreamt.  That much time asleep, I was bound 
to have tons of dreams.  If I'd kept a journal, or maybe a dictaphone, 
by my bed, I'd have a record, but all I remember is three days of 
black.

     I learned from a partially-Native-American friend that shamans, 
as cleansing or initiation, would bury themselves for days at a time
to kill off the old self, and emerge having left everything behind 
in exchange for insight into the other side.

     I did feel a bit reborn that Friday, transcendence or no.  But 
when I checked my tongue, and ruined a toothbrush turning it pink 
again, all I could think to do was go back to bed.