Dream State

. . .Two nights ago, I dreamed of helicopters smashing into giant birds and the sky, searing with taffy scars. It was all stereotypically apocalyptic. Children drowning in the oceans. Some Arabian king, tapestries, vans with rollerskate wheels and death.death.death. Last night, the filter was all gossamer and soft-lighting and I can remember less. The other He was reading a piece called Almost 149 Words (which only exists in my mind) and I was packing dried apples into plastic cups for a long journey. We (a nebulous and indeterminate "we") drove over the hill and saw a deserted and ink-stained beach. There were giant pink pumps - maybe an oil refinery, and enormous yellow windmills and the blond in the back said something about how Helen Hunt always has such an amazing eye for aesthetic structure. . .