Reading too much.

In Balzac's The Red House a soldier surgeon imagines murdering a wealthy merchant so vividly that when he wakes to find the man decapitated beside him he fears he is responsible - morally if not actually. In Murakami's The Clockwork Bird Chronicle the protagonist enters another world when he sleeps at the bottom of a well. In this world a man, who fits his description exactly, murders the man's brother-in-law with a base-ball bat, and then in some sort of time-lapse, still in this other well-world, he goes on to murder a man in the dark with the same base-ball bat. When he wakes he finds that in the real world the brother-in-law is really in a coma and not expected to recover - though this turns out to be from natural causes.

And yesterday I rang to find out why the meeting place for our writing group had been double-booked and discovered that someone had rung to cancel the what may have been our room booking. However, since no one had taken the name of either the group or the caller, they had put a question-mark against our group. And the strange thing is that it had passed through my mind earlier that week that maybe I should soon cancel our room due to lack of interest... so to discover that maybe someone did is weird. Is life reflecting dreams? Or am I simply reading too much?