I remember the discussion he speaks of - it was about the futile nature of existence and the both irrevocable and devastating eventuality of our own destruction, whether that destruction comes from illness, old age, human intervention, or something we do not yet know to fear. He said to me that night that he had never thought of life this way.
Or rather it wasn't that what we discussed was unknown to him; it was instead an idea he kept secret from himself. I told him this was likely the cause of his nightmares - he might be assimilating this "new" knowledge in his slumber. He says he cannot eat or play, but only stare out the windows into nothingness.
That his life feels in a sudden and visceral way entirely meaningless. That this meaninglessness has a taste even - stale, fishy, bitter.
Have I done this to him? Have I infected him with my world view as one might give another the flu? He said he does not want to talk to me anymore.
He said I am too depressing.