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..