Cancer doesn’t feel real. Cancer feels like an alien that industrial capitalist modernity has worried into an encounter: mid-astral, semi-sensory, all terrible. Cancer’s treatment is like a dream from which we only half-wake to find that half-waking is another chapter in the book of the dream, a dream that is a document and a container for both waking and sleep, any pleasure and all pain, the unbearable nonsense and with it all erupted meaning, every moment of the dream too vast to forget and every recollection of it amnesiac.
