another wuthering nite in the sausalito hills has come and gone..

someone recently asked me what my lifelong dream was. i muttered something moderately palatable to her normie psyche, unable to vocalize my real, infinitely more condescending answer––‘to cure an en pee see’ lolzz..

anyway, once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i find myself within the final hours of an immense, apocalyptic battle unfolding across an unfamiliar terrestrial dreamscape––a sprawling, dramatic theater comprised of soldiers, civilians, military apparatus, and innumerable infected moving chaotically across an environment already partially surrendered to outbreak and war..

an enormous bridge panoramically traverses the entire landscape, intermittently disappearing behind frenetic movements of people fleeing, fighting, dying. myriad weapons discharge from disparate corners of the battlefield as soldiers attempt to neutralize human bodies overtaken by some preternaturally intelligent parasitic (fungal?) infection, capable of subsuming its hosts so consummately that it renders them totally absent, unavailable for comment––and nearly impossible to kill..

and yet, alongside that diagnosis, i am psychically apprised of something seemingly irreconcilable––we are winning. i hold these two mutually exclusive certainties in abeyance without understanding how..

as military personnel fire upon the infected––bodies collapsing beneath the cumulative violence of a broader offensive whose mechanics remain oblique to my awareness––i apprehend that the battle has turned decisively against them. despite their almost incomprehensible resilience––despite every visual indication that they should be functionally indestructible––the infected are dying..

and somehow i know that it is precisely because we are winning that all the kinetic onslaughts are about to escalate—accelerate—from here..

as one of them begins to succumb nearby, its body collapses downward and appears almost to integrate with the earth itself. from somewhere beneath its faltering anatomy, long tentacular appendages suddenly proliferate outward, penetrating the ground before accelerating laterally through subterranean earth at impossible velocities––hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of yards in every direction..

its tentacles disappear entirely from view before erupting elsewhere across the battlefield––sometimes at distances so absurdly remote that their reemergences seem almost spatially irreconcilable with the nearby, prostrate creature from which they originated. the tentacles hunt frantically for residual sources of innocent life––surfacing beside soldiers, civilians, anyone apparently susceptible to whatever strange process of integration permits the infection to propagate from one life to another..

at one point i become vaguely aware that their selection is not indiscriminate. even while dying, the tentacles appear capable of making extraordinarily sophisticated, mathematically precise energetic appraisals of prospective victims––as though evaluating, from impossible distances, the relative capacities of passersby to resist whatever quanta of force yet available to them. the sufficiently resilient are apparently not worth the energetic expenditures––whereas others, perhaps more fragile, more permeable, can yet be overwhelmed..

at this point, an important heuristic governing the dream’s internal logic suddenly crystallizes for me––that the weaker the infected become, the more predatory they grow, and the farther their tentacles are predisposed to travel..

the battlefield deteriorates into almost incomprehensible chaos as soldiers continue gunning down the infected, bodies keep falling, and the unwashed are caught in the violent peripheral consequences of society’s collapse. every apparent victory seems to generate another wave of reciprocal suffering––as though coaxing the parasite towards its death merely inversely concentrates whatever residual life force yet within it into increasingly desperate expressions of predation..

amidst this pandemonium, my attention gradually converges upon one infected man in particular, bearing the physiognomy and aura of barack obama––or the parasite donning his mask?

the distinction feels strangely important from within the dream––everyone recognizes him as obama, and yet he remains an anthropomorphic costume for whatever intelligence now thoroughly occupying him..

he is dying, and for reasons never oneirically explicated, the dream seems intent upon making me watch. his family remains somewhere nearby––possibly alongside other powerful global playmakers, some themselves approaching death?––but my attention remains affixed to him as his life force recedes..

at some point, confronted with the inevitability of his own extinction, he motions to sacrifice one of his daughters..

i don't understand how––no visible transfer of blood or energy occurs anywhere on scene––yet i know immediately that her death has somehow bought him additional time. whatever biological economy governs the species allows the remaining vitality of one life to be appropriated by another, and so he surrenders his own daughter to salvage himself, tsk tsk..

and, predictably, whatever he extracts from her appears provisionally sufficient for him to survive a while longer..

energetically attenuated nonetheless, he collapses onto the ground before me––maybe ninety–eight percent dead?––prostrate, ostensibly motionless, a trail of dried blood emanating from his body in his wake. and yet, impossibly, somewhere thousands of yards away, his tentacles are still hunting beneath the earth––whatever residual life within him now obsessionally probing the farthest peripheral reaches of the dreamscape in one final act of parasitism as his body lies dormant, his predatory reach far beyond my optical purview..

i find myself almost awestruck by the supernatural tenacity of the enemy. even after sacrificing his own daughter, even after his body has been rendered ostensibly inert––his countenance totally obscured by dust and sweat and blood––one hundred percent of his residual life force remains devoted to finding someone else to infect on his way out the door––even in the throes of his ontological exit scene..

even as the parasite, via the infected, wields supernatural power, leveraging its asymptotic eye queue and pervasive subterranean reach, it continues to die in apparent defiance of every card on the table. the more power the parasite expends, the weaker it becomes––and the weaker it becomes, the more concentrated, desperate, and spectacular its final expression––a recursive ontological feedback loop that never seems to break. that certainty remains strangely inviolate even as ‘good’ people continue falling amidst the whiplash, collateral damage––pushing back against the parasite’s desperate efforts to stonewall––postpone––embryonic heaven a little while longer..

standing there in a kind of daze, i attempt in vain to reconcile the parasite’s remaining reach with its incontrovertible extinction––my pulsing, hazel eyes saccading panoramically across the bridge and soldiers and bodies and subterranean networks and broader theatre of war as reality fractures and i am abruptly collapsed back to waking life..

LS

pee es. just shipped a nauseatingly immaculate update to amethyst scene.. 😈🎬

follow the purple rabbit..

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means lolzz..

in a backstory of ancient europe––tucked away in a dreamscape reminiscent of germanic transylvania––i find myself descending a circular stone stairwell into the lowest recesses of a gothic castle––a superstructure occupying that liminal architectural boundary between undercroft, forgotten stable, and subterranean sanctuary ostensibly consigned to darker tenants forever ago..

the air is cool––heavy with the scent of damp limestone, moldering hay, broken hearts, dark magik, and time..

at the foot of the stairwell, i wander into a dim enclosure––a hidden, faintly gilded enclave seemingly reserved for torture, feeding, or maybe both? and out of the corner of my eye, i notice a small procession of piglets, their innocent perambulations surreally at odds with the funereal atmosphere surrounding us..

somewhere beyond the visible confines of the chamber––ensconced in a shadowed alcove where lite and equanimity alike refuse to enter scene––dwells a serpent of cyclopean scale..

operating exclusively within the shadows beyond the chamber's visible boundaries, the creature seems almost to premeditatedly conceal its face from me. everyone seems instinctively apprised of its existence––as though its presence has long ago become an accepted feature of the castle itself..

at one moment, we all psychically intuit that it must now be fed, and someone begins ushering the piglets into the deepest corner of the chamber..

one by one, they scamper eagerly into the serpent's hidden lair, ostensibly unaware of the gravity of the mise–en–scène. each time, anguished squeals reverberate throughout the stone corridors, and we all reflexively arrive at the same conclusion––no way this one survived, obviously won’t return, duh..

and yet, impossibly, each one emerges again moments later––perfectly intact and unscathed, darting back into the broader enclosure as though nothing whatsoever transpired..

the grotesque ritual repeats itself ad nauseam––squeals, frantic hoofbeats, disgruntled hissings, premature obituary musings––only for the piglets to emerge utterly unbothered each time..

then, without warning, the serpent itself glides forth from the darkness into cold lite..

only now do i notice that standing proximately adjacent to the shadows is an aureate–haired puppy––small, trusting, adorable, guileless––ostensibly entranced by the darkness, blissfully unapprised of the ancient intelligence quietly evaluating it from only a few feet away..

amidst this scene, the piglets continue scampering happily throughout the enclosure. but, refusing even to acknowledge the former, the serpent suddenly lunges toward the puppy instead––its selection appearing almost impossibly deliberate and suggestive of a pre–calculated energetic appraisal..

with horrifying precision, the serpent sinks its jaws into the puppy, violently slamming its corporal innocence against the stone floor with astonishing force. not once, but twice..

the puppy’s tiny body falls inert against cold stone––its fate immediately consigned to that liminal ontological boundary between life and oblivion..

and moments later, the serpent begins dragging its limp body back toward the darkness from which it came..

i stand there in a kind of daze, quietly collapsing to the center of myself––my gaze absently tracing the caulking between distant limestone blocks dimly illuminated by aureate incandescence––almost as though some instinct within me refuses to permit what i have just witnessed to fully land, permeate, augur..

and just as i begin straining my eyes into the shadows in a final effort to ascertain the puppy’s fate, the underlying scaffolding of reality gives way––the castle's ancient masonry, wavering torch–flames, tenebrous alcoves, and impossible geometries fragmenting, glitching, evanescing until the entire dreamscape surrenders me back to waking life..

LS

last nite i had a dream––tell me what this means lolzz..

we are high above the hollywood hills, descending aerially through a rarefied landscape of oak groves, cypress, terraced gardens, and rolling acclivities until the dream resolves into an outdoor basketball court more dramatic than any other in the world––as though curated from the empyrean itself..

suspended amidst trees, gardens, and luxuriant hillsides, the court appears almost divinely sequestered––a prelapsarian athletic sanctum ensconced high above el ay. the entire mise–en–scène––a quiet arcadia reserved exclusively for the lakers––feels exquisitely decadent, far removed from arenas, spectators, commercial spectacle, and the great unwashed below..

epistemically perched somewhere above the opulent gardens enveloping the court, i find myself evaluating players in the middle of a pickup game––moving freely, casually, ecstatically under open sky..

kobe is there––center stage. then, from out of my peripheral vision, the tall, unmistakable silhouette of lamar odom materializes momentarily before evanescing again into the broader tableau. other players drift across the court in loose congregations, their movements relaxed, unguarded, almost spiritually inebriated––wholly unacquainted with the gravity already retroactively saturating the scene..

amidst this context, i see myself––or maybe something else guiding me?––serving as a kind of temporal docent: an explanatory, edifying presence subtly directing my friends through a living fragment of history, as though the quotidian succession of time has briefly given way..

look carefully, i whisper. we are somewhere within the final hours before kobe’s death..

the realization doesn't descend upon me with shock so much as a dispassionate, disconsolate clarity. everyone on the court is playing, laughing, moving through the afternoon as though the sublunary continuum before them will remain indefinitely intact––while i remain totally captive to the dark apprehension that we are witnessing not merely the final hours of a man––but the last moments of an entire reality before its inevitable abrogation..

somewhere beyond the immaculate hills, beyond the horizon, beyond even the dreamscape's intelligible boundaries, another storm is embryonic. i cannot yet see or name it, but its gravity is already insinuating itself into everything around us––the court, the players, the perfect lite of the sun, and the blissful serenity of a world utterly unaware of what is about to unfold..

standing there in a kind of daze––my gaze absently tracing the micro–corrugations of a distant treeline––i become increasingly disquieted by the staged perfection of the mise–en–scène––the bordering–on–grotesquely verdant surrounding hillsides, the unnaturally pristine court, the atmosphere imbued with a soft, hallowed stillness––almost as though creation itself has gone out of its way to preserve one last reprieve, one final image of innocence, before history descends..

nothing has transpired yet––the players remain in motion, the game continues, the radiant afternoon seems endless..

and yet, somewhere amidst the decadence and pretty erewhon smiles, i can feel the unseen machinations of history already beginning to turn..

the dream offers no further elaboration, no gratifying celestial exposition––only the hallowed spectacle of final movements on a court tucked away in the rarefied hills of paradise, and the sepulchral intimation of a storm already ascendant somewhere unseen..

LS

another hallowed nite in marin has come and gone..

and even as an anaesthetized status–quo seems ascendant here––even as gilded mediocrity prevails the world over––in this exquisite, liminal moment, i can’t help but feel that we’re on the precipice of something epochal, irreversible, extraordinary..

before dawn, i had a lucid ay ef dream (ostensibly facilitated by supraphysiological doses of nascent iodine, copper, and questionable decision–making lolzz)––tell me what this means..

we are ensconced deep beneath the earth within an immense subterranean superstructure that somehow serves as the venue for a world cup–like soccer tournament. my entire context feels architecturally supernatural––part subway station, part stadium, part underground playground. thousands of people drift through tunnels and concourses beneath the surface while preparations for a final match unfold all around us..

in the hours preceding the match, i drift through the venue’s cyclopean galleries, wandering among myriad locker rooms arrayed along an apparently infinite circumferential corridor..

in one of these, i encounter a diverse congregation of world cup stars––all donning their countries’ respective uniforms––from different eras, nations and timelines. all of them are preparing for competition––and a nervous expectancy permeates the air..

surveying the scene, my eyes descend sequentially upon neymar standing among friends and then ronaldinho sitting alone in a distant corner of the room. but something is wrong––neither of them is sick or injured. rather, they seem energetically attenuated, diminished––as though their life force has partially withdrawn from them..

neymar appears deeply despondent––on the verge of tears––ostensibly saddened by his fall from grace. ronaldinho’s trademark long, cascading hair has turned eerily white and gossamer. both of them look almost spectral––ghostly simulacra of whoever they used to be––as though somewhere along the way they have privately survived some life–threatening tragedy of which the rest of us are totally unaware..

a friend notices my concern and quietly pulls me aside, relating to me that everyone sees what i see. but an unspoken consensus seems to prevail throughout the room––that despite their evident physical and spiritual devolution, the match remains..

eventually we make our way onto the field. from this novel vantage, the stadium reveals itself in full––unfolding on a leviathan scale, vast enough to contain an entire world..

at the same moment, i cast off some kind of sartorial encumbrance that has been hindering me––a handkerchief concealing part of my neck maybe? the details are hazy. whatever it is, removing it leaves me feeling lighter, less constrained, free(r)..

at the outset of the match, i find myself lingering proximate to one of the corner flags. immediately adjacent to the field is a dark, somewhat ominous exit leading into a concrete stairwell ascending to the surface. i am struck by the peculiarity of my position––one step places me upon the pitch, another at the threshold of a dramatic staircase leading out, above, beyond. i am neither fully in the game nor fully outside of it––precariously existentially suspended between two mutually exclusive, competing realities..

a strange stillness descends upon the arena as the crowd, players continue moving, preparing. yet beneath the surface of appearances, i sense that something has already begun..

among the players, i see a girl i used to know in life––or maybe someone bearing her physiognomy. i motion for her to come closer..

i think today might be the day, I murmur softly, as though giving voice to a possibility already hanging silently between us. if anything happens, come find me..

she nods in agreement as she turns her back to me..

no sooner have the words left my mouth than a figure passes through my peripheral vision near the sideline, gesturing casually toward the exit. at first there appears to be nothing unusual about him. then i notice his eyes––his pupils dilating dramatically into pools of impossible darkness as his gaze empties of life..

i already know––the music is about to stop. there would be no warning period––no opportunity to sway anyone..

i immediately signal to her..

without hesitation we abscond toward the exit and begin ascending an improbable, seemingly infinite staircase toward the world above. somewhere below us, the match, the crowd, the nations, and the spectacle continue preparing for a contest whose outcome no longer matters. the game was over before it even began..

eventually the staircase empties into the entrance hall of a station at street level. approaching one of the station’s doors, i strain against its immense weight until it grudgingly yields a few inches, allowing me to peer through the narrow aperture beyond..

standing sentinel outside the threshold is a zombie donning the uniform of a transit worker. the sight unsettles me––the infection has reached the very people entrusted with guiding others..

even though i am careful, the creature notices me immediately––its eyes locking onto me as it begins lurching toward us..

between us stands only a heavy, cast–iron door and a few fleeting seconds. beyond, the world seems suspended in a final inhalation, as though all of creation has paused upon the verge of remembering something past and long forgotten..

and for a liminal moment that seems to span forever, i find myself staring into that narrow space between concealment and revelation..

with a single saccade of my pulsing, hazel eyes, my mise–en–scène begins to glitch, fragment, unravel as my dreamscape collapses and i am recalled back to the cypress–lined confines of rarefied suburbia..

LS

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means lolzz..

i find myself among a select cadre of preternaturally gifted young people competing within a sprawling, multilayered racecourse suspended somewhere between amusement park, proving ground, and celestial infrastructure. the entire superstructure unfurls mythically across amethyst skies à la mario cart––its myriad luminous tracks spiraling through clouds emanating purple lite, diverging into increasingly elevated tiers, each level carrying participants farther and further from the world below..

competition is fierce, yet also surreally effortless. a small nucleus of us continually emerges at the forefront of every heat, ascending level after level while others incrementally fall away as background characters. the women around us are attractive ay ef––and my male friends carry themselves with a confidence and competence i find myself cautiously matching, even eclipsing..

there is a pervasive awareness among us that we have all been divinely curated for something––though none of us yet understands precisely what that ‘thing’ is..

eventually the course converges upon a final proving station unlike any before it..

there, positioned at the terminus of the uppermost tier, materializes a narrow staircase rising into open sky. beyond it hangs no bridge, no platform, no visible destination––only atmosphere, magik and lite..

myriad competitors gather at this threshold and pause in a state of quiet, appraising abeyance..

some competitors evaluate the staircase briefly before retreating. others linger at its base in a despondent daze, as though contemplating an existential endgame no longer accessible to them––their prior accomplishments, however awesome, suddenly and retroactively rendered provincial in light of the new threshold before them..

yet a smaller contingent––mine––remains..

the clouds possess a preternatural luminosity and drift in immense continental formations beyond the staircase. occasionally figures emerge from among them at the summit, the proximate sky’s amethyst hues shimmering faintly as they materialize. they descend toward us with expressions of quiet amusement, as though returning from personalized vacations––their countenances bearing the unmistakable energy of divinity and play..

i perceive not even the faintest semblance of supercilious triumph in them. no urgency. no desire to impress––only an unimposing undercurrent of childlike delight..

as the returning competitors congregate, they begin relating stories of their adventures beyond. one describes how the clouds themselves serve as sustenance there––that portions of atmosphere may be torn away and consumed, whereupon vapor assumes the flavor and substance of whatever food one desires..

others relate even weirder amusements. from time to time, they explain, inhabitants of the higher realms secrete numerologies and coded messages within films, events, and cultural artifacts unfolding in the world below––small acts of angelic mischief occasionally apprehended by only the most spiritually precocious. more often than not, however, these messages pass unnoticed, dissolving into the ambient static of ordinary life..

they relate these stories so casually, almost irreverently, leaving the distinct impression that whatever lies beyond the staircase is governed less by solemnity than wonder––less by spiritual judgment than play..

eventually the flow of returning travelers attenuates, leaving the staircase vacant..

for the first time in my life, i realize there is nothing left between myself and whatever lies beyond..

i ascend the staircase as the racetracks, competitors, and my friends begin to fade into a bleary, distant backstory of my awareness––as though already consigned to another chapter of my life..

for a brief moment i linger at the threshold, bracing myself before stepping into open air. gravity takes hold momentarily, only to relinquish me almost immediately..

the entire scene below me continues to recede both spatially and ontologically as i ascend. from my elevating vantage, i can see vast aureate structures suspended at almost nonsensical elevation––their outlines resolving into pure lite against the horizon..

and just as the first contours of the empyrean begin to emerge through the clouds ahead, reality itself suffers a kind of structural failure––its scaffolding and convolutions and myriad impossible colors flickering, glitching, evanescing as God collapses me back into hypnopompia..

LS

last nite i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i find myself alone in a high–rise apartment, standing proximately adjacent to an antiquated wall heater––a dormant industrial relic––affixed to and extending laterally across the room’s northernmost wall. outside, a zombie invasion has overtaken the earth––all of society fallen, infected, spiritually inebriated, consumed by something feral, contagious. i turn an arbitrary dial counter–clockwise and strike a fractured match..

i light the pilot, and a liminal moment of silence seems to span eons before fire finally catches..

behind the heater’s metal grating, darkness gives way to incipient incandescence, and fire surges violently to life as the entire expanse of the heater––and perhaps something else––is coaxed awake. nauseating heat billows outward into the room almost ceremonially, as though i am initiating not mere warmth but some volatile force long held dormant. i stand there entranced, contemplating the ignition unfold with strange reverence, aware that something deep, atavistic has just been set into motion..

then my vantage evanesces––shifts..

i find myself perambulating a sprawling indoor mall superstructure––cathedral–scale, labyrinthine, ostensibly endless in its fluorescent expanse––alongside a small cadre of survivors, navigating cyclopean corridors somewhere in the despondent aftermath of collapse. together we hunt the infected using improvisational weapons––knives, spiked bats, fragments of a fallen world repurposed for survival..

in spite of everything, there is adrenaline, even a tinge of exhilaration in the air amidst the (now deescalating) peril. from somewhere behind me, the words hold the line echo like some post–apocalyptic refrain..

we move dramatically, instinctively, sanitizing the mall sector by sector––the entire performance somehow feeling less like survival now than a spiritual, ritualistic purge..

eventually, silence descends upon the mall. i can feel the collective begin to believe––albeit subliminally––that we have eliminated the last of the infected. yet i remain uneasy, drifting through neglected recesses and peripheral corners with lingering vigilance, searching for residual traces of contamination..

not long after, i come across a cluster of garbage cans gathered tightly together in a dim corner of the mall. something in me knows reflexively, immediately. i approach cautiously and tap one of the containers almost ritually with my weapon..

instantly, a final zombie erupts outward from concealment..

i neutralize it quickly––the last residual enemy of our cleanup mission..

we begin to celebrate as relief washes over the group. i linger there in a kind of post–catastrophic daze, my immediate milieu gradually losing definition as i panoramically contemplate the survivors, the corpses, the fluorescent debris of collapse––and all the strange, violent, beautiful things catastrophe reveals..

then suddenly, realization descends upon me with almost ontological force––i left my fire burning back ‘home’..

somewhere in the distance––half–veiled by darkness and dream––my high–rise apartment glows faintly against the nite skyline, its silhouette delicately adumbrated in fire, beautifully aflame––not catastrophic, not devastating, not yet..

and in the twinkling of an eye, my entire scenery begins to flicker, recede, evanesce––my gaze remaining reverently transfixed upon the fire of God as i descend into hypnopompia..

LS

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i’m moving through a street at dusk, trailing an indian man i don’t know but implicitly distrust. he vaults across city blocks with quiet certainty, as though he’s apprised of, attuned to a geometry i haven’t yet learned. then, almost imperceptibly, he slips through a seam in the city––a concealed passageway i would have missed entirely had i not been studying, appraising him so closely..

and before the aperture can close, i pass through after him..

the corridor is nauseatingly narrow, pressing in on both sides kinda like that one (dream) sequence in inception as it descends via a steep, dim stairwell––an infrastructural incursion beneath the visible world. i press onward as the city above me recedes both spatially and ontologically..

arriving, i find myself in a vast, dark, cement–reinforced hangar––cathedral–scale, subterranean––alongside high school and college friends. i drift through its advanced facilities, eventually opting to shower via extremely filtered water in a high–end spa, then lingering in adjoining recreation spaces––adorned with seemingly curated twenty–something women (as though vetted for aesthetic coherence), and other strangers familiar..

at some point after, my friends and i find ourselves stationed beside a doorway leading into a long, sterile corridor, an elevator waiting at its terminal––and we’re being interrogated about a crime. something in me––irrational, almost devotional––impels me to surrender, submitting to arraignment on charges i know to be fraudulent..

a security guard derides me hyperbolically––almost theatrically––mocking my evanescent six–pack (LIES lolzz) as he cuffs me. he escorts me down the corridor and into an elevator, and in that quiet descent one cuff slips cleanly from my wrist––effortless, almost preordained..

it dawns on me all at once that he was acting: i wasn’t actually ‘arrested’––i was being tested. the pressure dissolves instantly––and i am overcome with relief, immediate, absolute..

descending to one of the hangar’s restricted floors, we are greeted by a select group of military personnel who begin to delineate a far more expansive operation––the systematic dismantling of a global, transnational, trans–generational crime syndicate. i’m spiritually awestruck, yet intellectually unsurprised, to discover that ‘black hats’ were long ago apprehended, convicted for their crimes against humanity––their myriad cells scattered around us like constellations of consequence..

their leader––calm, almost benevolent––affirms what i already intuitively know: that all public figures ‘out there’––leaders, CEOs, celebrities, et al––are actors in masx, and that ‘white hats’ are sustaining a prolonged, deliberate spectacle designed to gradually coax the public awake. and everything the public is seeing ‘out there’ in the matrix is nothing but theatre––all of it..

before departing, he leaves me with a final assignment: one last, preeminent bad actor remains at large––and that i need to find, apprehend him..

he wishes me luck with a warm, knowing smile––his kind eyes dissolving into a bleary backstory of my awareness as i descend into hypnopompia..

once upon a time i had a dream––tell me what this means..

i find myself within a totally circumscribed, walled–off city dreamscape––sealed off from the broader world by an immense barrier rising intimidatingly at its peripheral boundaries. our only means of passage to the other side is an extraordinarily perilous contrivance––a kind of electrified zip line superstructure suspended thousands of feet in the air, at points ascending in near–vertical trajectory, navigable only by the fucking insane..

a ‘friend’ and i apprehensively elect to mount it, leaving the safety of familiar grounds in our wake..

we ascend into the sky, suspended in appalling elevation above the city below. the entire line feels excruciatingly precarious, provisional––liable to collapse at any moment. yet throughout my ascent, my chief preoccupation is not bodily harm but the fear that my brand new lavender eye phone might slip from grasp and vanish into the depths below..

i clutch it with inexplicably tenuous care, holding it in a manner wholly at odds with my obsessive anxiety––as i am absurdly and neurotically preoccupied with not losing it to the abyss lolzz..

suddenly, without warning––as if borne of my own fears––the metal mechanism by which i am suspended from the line gives way––and i am cast downward into the depths below, my entire body reflexively bracing for imminent death..

yet by (implied) divine providence, at that exact moment, we are passing above the parapet of an immense gothic rooftop, and so i fall only a short way—maybe seven, ten feet––landing somewhat athletically, acrobatically onto the rooftop below..

when i strike its surface, one of its tiles gives way slightly beneath me, almost as though it was left loose by my higher self in anticipation of my arrival. collecting myself and surveying my environs, i espy the broken apparatus that moments earlier bore my weight, now shattered upon the rooftop with almost ceremonial vividness..

my friend, lingering upon the line slightly longer, soon descends upon the rooftop as well, though not immediately proximate to me. for the briefest of moments, we converge there in a kind of breathless communion before pressing onward..

it becomes immediately clear to me that the zip line is no longer necessary––and that wherever i must now go must be reached via other means..

together we set out across the high and treacherous parapets, proceeding by our own steps through an elevated and perilous cityscape..

and then, somewhat ethereally, my vantage recedes into that of a distant, omniscient witness. i see us from afar––two small silhouettes quietly navigating the abandoned heights of a sealed world beneath a dreary, frigid skyscape, sustained now not by sight or machinery but faith alone..

and as i evaluate us vaulting with elfin agility across the city skyline––with bated breath and melancholy heart––the dream dissolves irreverently into hypnopompia..

exactly three nites ago, under the full pink moon, i had another four dimensional, ten eighty kay lucid dream––these appear to be manifesting, iterating in ever–higher resolution with each nite that passes as i continue titrating up copper sulfate, nascent iodine, and colloidal gold doses, bee tee double you..

i wonder if these doses are the price of admission lolzz..

anyway, i would be immensely grateful if you could tell me exactly what this means..

i find myself at the highest level of a rarefied, bordering–on–utopian superstructure––a multi–tiered climbing academy of such unmitigated opulence that it transcends the genre of ‘gym’ altogether––converging on something else entirely, like a private, world–class sanctum of athletic ascendance, reserved for a vanishingly exalted and select few. the entire sanctuary feels like a case study in nauseating decadence––every surface and panel immaculate, every architectural flourish evoking excess and neurotic precision––as though cost became laughingly irrelevant forever ago..

from the highest floor, i occupy a position borne not of exertion, but of quiet, appraising dominion––perched somewhere in the superstructure’s empyrean, at a balcony vantage overlooking the ascent of others, and beyond that, the skyline of an adjacent city dissolving softly into lite..

through a vast aperture in the superstructure, a sheer rock face rises––part natural, geogenic formation, part contrived, anthropogenic construct––a vertical proving ground where climbers can test themselves against curated peril. from among the athletes in my purview, i make out the distinct physiognomy and aura of tom cruise, ascending with effortless precision, ostensibly untouched by the contingencies that bind ordinary anatomies. though he is accompanied by a safety harness, he does not rely on it––his discipline, acrobatic dexterity appear total, almost preeminent..

he reaches the summit––my level––and rather than dismounting onto the adjacent platform, he remains suspended in a state of poised, almost performative stillness. his climb complete, his purpose apparently dissolved, he lingers there in a state of quiet abeyance, tethered yet inert––as if the culmination itself has retroactively emptied the act of meaning..

my attention drifts. i stray momentarily, wandering into an adjacent room—which then grows reciprocally diffuse, liminal, briefly inhabited by other figures, then emptied. i return to the balcony believing i would be totally alone, only to realize that central casting never left. he is still there, suspended, resting within the tension of his own apparatus, his legs wrapped around his rope––although more loosely, precariously than i remember them before..

then, not long after, his voice––intimate, unguarded, vulnerable––rises with strange, pensive, ontological clarity, ‘i love you, kelly’..

and immediately after the words are uttered, i hear the sound of release––the tension of his harness giving way, lines slackening, a body falling..

moments later, the finality of impact––literally the most horrific thud i have ever heard––echoes upward from a distant, cold mezzanine..

i stand there, suspended in uncertainty, not of what happened––but of why. was it a failure of attention––a fleeting lapse in an otherwise perfect system..

or was his decision a deliberate, unannounced decision to let go––self–erasure?

the dream offers no answer, ontological clarity, or exposition––only the sepulchral echo of his body within hallowed, opulent confines, and an existential purgatory renascent..

LS

pee es. no feelings are considered in my writing of these posts––for all post suggestions or complaints, please see the eye dee gee ay ef clause located in terms of use section lolzz..

fourteen years ago, somewhere in the early spring of twenty twelve, i had the exact same recurring dream four, maybe five times in the same month..

evidentiary prerogatives, broadcast on (formerly) twitter, no less, lmAo:

'saw the end of the world in my dreams, the disconsolate faces of loved ones impaled on spikes along the belvedere coastline, a golden bridge fallen in the background under an overcast sky'..

'impaled on spikes'. awfully vaccinal in retrospect, tsk tsk..

since twenty twenty one, i’ve found myself increasingly retrospectively wondering whether the physical spikes of that first sequence, stark along the shoreline, were a prophetic prefiguration––auguring the pathogenic spikes that would be deployed on billions nine years later..

i’m positioned aerially along the belvedere coastline, my viewport dimmed beneath a heavy, overcast sky. the water lies flat, silver––the proximate circumambient air carrying a disconsolate stillness..

then, suddenly, my vantage shifts, almost violently, as if the entire scene is being torn open––and i make out myriad spikes lining the rocky shore..

at first the spikes are adumbrated faintly, registering only as vague structures––but as i draw nearer, the image resolves clearly..

i realize then that the spikes are not empty––the severed heads of friends, family are pierced upon them, bloodied, suspended, unmistakable. this mise–en–scène lingers cruelly, forcing recognition where one would prefer abstraction..

the first face that comes into focus is that of my former dentist––unexpected, but somehow marked as the beginning. almost like the first domino in a chain whose consequences only time could reveal in earnest..

others follow, implied if not fully seen, until the coastline itself feels consecrated by this silent procession..

and then, without rupture, the scene lifts..

i am positioned aerially again, looking out onto the skyline of the city. the skycape has shifted chromatically now––imbued with pastel, amethyst hues, bruised, luminous against the horizon..

the golden gate bridge lies utterly collapsed––its scaffolding shattered, its span undone. from its wake, a bloom of smoke unfurls into the night sky––the violence that birthed it already receding, leaving only residue behind..

the city stands beyond it, intact, distant––its myriad lites still coruscating––while the passage that once carried privileged suburbia into its orbit lies broken beneath the same sky..

and before i can cry out for celestial exposition, i awaken..