/lit/ - Literature

Can I get a critique? I'll offer criticism in return if anyone would like:

He woke up in darkness to what sounded like water lapping at the sides of a pool, and this was concerning because there was no pool in his bedroom. He reached out from the covers to the lamp on his bed stand and saw that his now illuminated bedroom was flooded a foot deep. A book floated here and a t-shirt there. His stomach started to knot itself and his blood ran cold, until it occured to him that his apartment was on the third story of a building far above sea level. This had to be a dream. Calmly, he shut off the light and laid back down, naturally assuming that going to sleep in a nightmare would exhchange it for a vision that was less distressing. The water lapped at the frame of his bed while he drifted off.
It was hunger that woke him the second time, and immediately he was aware of how gently the floor seemed to undulate beneath his bed. He opened his eyes and saw he was no longer in total darkness and no longer beneath a roof. It was a dim gray and marbled sky that rose overhead like the high, clay ceiling of an enormous cave. He looked around and saw the rest of his room was gone as well, and now here was only him and his bed, floating on an ocean between billows of mist that were the same ugly color as the clouds above: Nothing but water for as far as he could see.

The hunger he felt was too real for this to be a dream, but how could that be? Maybe the city had flooded and was beneath him now, in the water? or maybe he had somehow drifted into the Atlantic. Was this the afterlife? He sat stupified on his bed, entertaining a scramble of hypotheticals, until a frenzied need to do something overtook him. First as a croak, then as a shout, he began calling into the unworld around him for help. He screamed and screamed until many hours had passed and his voice cracked from the strain and tears, but no one heard him, or there was no one around to hear him, and eventually he gave up and collapsed into his bed, depressed. His head throbbed from the yelling and a lack of coffee. He stared up from his pillow until the sky brightened to a lighter shade of gray. He stared until something bumped into the bedframe: A plank of driftwood, floating within reach. Instinctively he leaned over and grabbed it, nearly launching himself overboard in the process. Now, at least, he had a paddle.