Dream Thirteen:

Dream Thirteen:

This dream was broken up into two parts by waking in the midst of the night. The first half was set at a Debate Tournament; the second was on a boat wherein a fight to the death was to be held. Both felt Kafkaesque.

1.        For the tournament, I had spent hours preparing a set of music. My band consisted of my self and two other guys; one of them was Dillon Thomas. A.I.A.L, Dillon was struggling to get the music done and down. The morning of the tournament, *I* was struggling to get in contact with them. The few hours left to prepare slipped away like minutes. Finally, I had to head straight for the tournament,

Looking to find them and to learn when we were due to perform. I showed up without any pants; I tried not to let this fact bother me.

Catching up with a few other kids my age, as they were just going into their round,

I asked when Round was Starting. One of them said simply: Now.

The corridors were Kafkaesque but all so trippy. There were rooms between doors and between elevators that looked like big black airlocks, for instance. They must have been surveilled. How do I figure? They remind me now of the prison in Breaking Bad; that’s how. I was lucky that I did not get shanked, I guess. Most people just floated right by me, barely stopping to scoff even.

I saw Brandan on the way. He was detached and bemused, much as he gets when he asks how we ‘did’ I.A.L.

I suppose now that I see just how Piscean he is, for the first time.

I decided to say ‘fuck it’ to the Debate Team. On our way up an escalator of some sort, I vented my concerns to my team-mates, explaining with all due drama why it was that I could not go on in this community. Awilda simply replied, with flirtatious cheer:

‘Just so you know. all that you said. I agree with it completely.

But while it totally bothers YOU,

it does not bother me at all.’

Or some thing to that effect.

I descended the precarious day-time stairs to make my exit. I realise now that these represented the Spinal Column.

2.      The first dream was set at day-time,

But with the bleakness that people reserve for night. The second one was at night-time, but it had all the vibrancy often ascribed to Day.

A group of ‘us’ (the proverbial collective, intersubjective first-person)

Were boarded upon a sea vessel.

This elaborate ship was built along lines similar to the school from the prior dream. There were many staircases, escalators, and rooms-between-rooms. Guards were stationed and police patrolled the vessel in a sort of investigation.

As with the first dream, we were there in anticipation of some event.

The team was stoked, yet some thing was up. I followed Josh Simmons, who had gotten up suspiciously within the middle of the night. Truthfully, I might all ready have been up,

Either to make contact with *^*^*^*’s forces, or for some more spontaneous reason that remains hidden to me.

However innocent my chance meeting with Josh, it did not end so. Josh was barred exit from one of the decks by a set of police officers –

Probably a pair – that demanded to Know where it was that he had acquired a certain stylized half-

Litre bottle that he was carrying.

This seemed an absurd trinket to draw such serious attention to, but Josh mirrored their interest in it by withdrawing from the room and then withdrawing from his pocket a Knife. I implored him not to try to fight them, admonishing in shock more so than begging in desperation.

Yet he persisted. I was left within the adjacent room to await the carnage. Fearful for my OWN safety,

I fled to other parts of the ship. The civil war had started.

Dm.A.A.

I realised why we were there: to be gladiators fighting to the death. Josh had learned this and planned to use bombs to escape our captors.

When one of my companions, a female, caught up with me several hours later, I told her this. Stoically I explained that I would be killing none of my friends. I’d simply have to take the fight straight to the Captors, at expense of my own life.

Dm.A.A.