Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Dreams of Late

Taken from my journal.

I am in the army. I get a phone call - or somesuch - Lucy is dead. Unknown cause. My heart sinks, the Titanic got nothing on me. Stomach knotted. I am crying for half this dream, if not more. I go into the Sergeant's office to arrange the funeral, find the right photo to have etched on her grace but I cannot find THE RIGHT ONE.
"That one's fine," says my companion of a posed shot, black and white, of her and I like movie stars, but it looks nothing like us.
"No it's not!" I cry. "That's not what she looked like!"
She appears - an apparition, a ghost - and tells me, "It's okay, I have no hard feelings about it all." She smiled.
I am crying, angry.
"But I do! I do! It's not okay! There's so much we didn't do, I didn't say! I never got to live with you, make you my wife! I love you!"
The world shakes and I'm awake.


After being in a giant sandbox I am going down a giant escalator. I am with 2 Mexican friends. 2 Japanese guys slander them, "spicks!" I tell them to back off, "cunts!" They throw the place into lockdown - they are the sons of the owner of this place - my friends escape. I manage to pry open the glass doors and escape - Dave helps to an old warehouse. I am being pursued by FIVE murderous Tilda Swintons, one who kills and the others who laugh. I am in a workshop and I call Nick Jordan out to help - give him a mallet and I have a sledgehammer. We are backed up against the wall when the group enters and I demand to know what's going on. Nobody knows.

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