[chainsoar]

Are you kidding me? If he was trying to help me, I fail to see how he would achieve that by lobbing syringes overarm at my head. As for the childhood dreams, I once had one where my mother was brutally butchered by a maniac with a chainsaw. There was gore and everything. Evil stuffed bunnies, my arse. Also, I used to sit up some nights thinking about death and when I was going to die and make myself unable to sleep through worry. I used to picture a gravestone with me under it, the moment of death, everything. My mother used to have to come and tell me I didn't have to worry about that yet, but I was never convinced. I remember once having a nervous conversation with a friend about how long he reckoned people live on average, hopefully suggesting about 90 these days, and feeling totally crestfallen when his estimate fell short. So the insignificance bit is probably covered by that somehow.