2008...
Roman aqueducts, 7 or 8 of them piled up one on top of the other in a semi-cylindrical shape with the arches of each row stacked partially off-center. The set-up is placed against a rolling hills and a blue, dawning sky. The whole thing spins - each alternating row in the opposite direction - and clowns run in and out of the arches. It makes me giddy. It makes me fall backwards.
2010...
It is a precipitous brown brick skyscraper, but the ocean has covered half of it. I'm left to carry out my own sentence, effectively making it a suicide. I wonder if jumping down with the noose lynched around my neck would snap the nerve column and bring a swift death.
Or perhaps I should ride a cart inside the building. Strangely, the flow has a gagged gaping hole as if something massive crashed right through it. It is an office building, with frayed wires sparking through the ceiling and hanging down like treacherous serpents. The computers are flashing on and off, files lie strewn everywhere, and the gale picks up stray white papers, tossing them around like forgotten leaves. The electric passenger carts whizz around it. I wonder if I could whizz in one of them while the noose is tied to a pillar. Maybe that will make it quick as well.
What would Freud or Jung say about these queer dreams (nightmares) that have no apparent cause, association or real-world correspondence? I do not study Roman architecture, only having seen a documentary on the History Channel detailing its construction. I do not watch post-apocalyptic movies where the seas have risen that high. I am not superstitious, most certainly don't believe in witchcraft or similar metaphysical notions, and will definitely contest any such accusation or sentence. Yet I acquiesced. Even worse, I sought to carry it out, albeit with a melancholic air.
While we map the stars, we get lost in in our own psyches. These movies play behind my eyelids.
And I wonder what I'll see tonight.
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