7/6/08

7/6/08
Long, round mall with gold inlaid walls along steep marble passageways - I am there on lunch from work. Agent is there with friends, but she has just been asssaulted. Two men ran up and stabbed her two friends to death, and she barely survived. The family meets her.

I wander. A small bathroom down the corridor. There's a black man in there, crying, perhaps in remorse, maybe 19. Is he responsible?

Cnn.com later showed me that the men involved had been caught at the scene.

I am working in a field. There is a massive project being overtaken. I am driving a taxi therein, though I am somehow driving it from the rear left seat. An older man and his young ward climb into the car (front left and rear right, respectively), and I take them somewhere. I am scared of
the boy, so I race wildly backwards in the car, hoping to crash it.

The project is to construct a massive blow-up dragon, something like a massive reinforce balloon or bouncy castle, but mammoth in scale - 1/2 x 1/2 x 2 miles high. The dragon is divided into multiple sections, with the upper wings being a massive parts, indicated by glowing lines traced across my perspective with no source. People are building 2x4 frames to hold it. Project is led in part by Anders Friden who stands atop all the frames.

Farmer's daughter is helping the project, a young girl with short blond hair in curls. She needs the two sheriffs' favor to allow the project to continue. She offers the first sheriff pie, but he says "No, missy, you can't persuade me with bribes." The second immediately says "Right here," she
gives it to him. She leaves. She then returns slightly later with another pie, leans over to the first, and asks again. He refuses, so she kisses him. Kisses his chest, and works her way down to his now-erect penis and begins to suck him off right there.

Is there more?

7/5/08

A seedy bar, with something of a western flavor, sawdust on the floor, most things made of wood, large parts of the bar actively outdoors with the line between in/out simply blurred. At times, the roof simply ceases to be, and the night sky twinkles down into this courtyard/bar lit by strung lanterns.

Me: "They're coming soon."
He: "Who?"
"The fucking Spanish."
"So? We have plenty of guns."
"No we don't, not anymore. All our guns, our worlds, they're being extinguished. If they land one man with a gun here, that's the end of the last."
"... Jesus."
"We have to get ready for them, if we want to defend ourselves and all the other... French?"

I know that we're French, but the confidence lessens greatly. Flailing around the barstool I find that all my neighbors are wearing patches of Old Glory. Perhaps I was wrong.

The night comes, we are embattled. The time period seems extremely confused. We are clustered amongst a small network of rickety, incomplete wooden fences about 5' tall. Several prepared rifles line the walls.

Suddenly the battle begins. Bullets, perhaps arrows, fly through the air, piercing the flame-licked darkness of a time before electricity. Men covered in armor crackling with lightning mow down over 18th century golddiggers in an orgy of violence. Behind me, a half-gnome/half-demon looking like whatever Lunar's Jessica is vomits magma to defend her children while a nobleman with a blazing sword demands that his comrades write sonnets mid-war of his exploits. A woman chases me, promising violence, until her last attack expended leaves me standing, and all I can do is reveal the last hammer that I still hold in my dirt-caked hands.

She dies by my hands.

7/4/08

I was interning for the Red Sox. Not as a bat boy, but as a Workout Manager. Everyone is playing pickup basketball, including Big Papi, Kevin Youkilis, an attractive woman, and a distracted old man. He seems to be scraggly at best, white-haired, and wearing torn clothing. Something about the throwing of the ball seems to terrify him - particularly the woman. He stumbles backward out a rear-corner pair of heavy-set gym doors, always verging on screams.

There is a confused condensation of the crowd as people mill around like a Mad Hatter's Tea Party. Perhaps in the confusion, or in the blink of a mind, I have been grasped firmly between two burly guards who 'escort' me down a long passageway. The scenery rapidly descends into ironworks, grime, and heavy interlocking doors. I am shuffled down a labyrinthine set of passages before being brought through some final sphincter of a door into a vast, tall, open space.

Looking up, the room is simultaneously exterior and yet interior. Above, well-rounded steel, present though unplacable light, and the dull roar of thousands speaks to a dystopian futuristic, perhaps steampunk-esque setting. I am watched like a Christian in the arena - or perhaps a maggot introduced to an ant farm. I am marched down the runway, still held firm between two shoulders, for the door indeed ends in a long solitary corridor overrunning an endless shadow. On the opposite side, another such ramp leads down to a 10' circle of metal, whereupon a fallen body now lies.

The old man lies in a puddle of his own dried blood, a grisly chainsaw savagely wedged somewhere into the mass of flesh that he has become. A guard turns to my partner dressed in blue, lifts up another such chainsaw, and forcefully rams it onto the man's shoulder, forcing him into the position of a man of burden "at rest". The saw's blade rips through about an inch of flesh before stopping with a sickening crunch in bone. He seems to be armed.



"Is there anyone else here? Somebody's screaming - Please help me. Let's find out now that I'm not dreaming. Welcome to my damnation - Here it comes: The Real Me."

6/22/08

I am stuck inside Saw. I am trapped in some bizarre puzzle involving a large square cubic recess of a room surrounded by other such cubes. The room is sunken down by 12 feet, and is suspended one way or another over a great pit, wherein slick dark green ooze seems to broil. An enormous cage surrounds our cube (for there are several there), while the other cubes all slide around.

I sneak into the old man’s mansion, his cult somehow grown to larger numbers (read: 7). I hide in a shadowy corner, not really well hidden, beside a leaning painting, I'm sure of something macabre. I wrap myself up in my black sweatshirt hoping to lend myself better to the dark. It is the scene of adolescent eavesdropping, up against a banister of a darkened upper hallway listening to those speaking in the lights below, hardly hidden oneself save for obscurity.

He knows I was there.

There is a severe impending feeling of inescapable death.

I go home, looking for some way out – to find a way to kill him, to find a way to run forever. I try packing clothes briefly to get away – something like a white sweater is involved for getting down to the arctic or something far like that.

I know it is doomed to fail.

I try getting Wizard to help, but it seems wrong to involve him – and I know it would never work.
He comes for me.



Outside/Inside street party. In particular, someone is having a wedding? The girl has a drum set of sorts set out – but it’s not a drumset. It’s a group of red candle holders that all produce drum sounds (or even rolls) when struck. I try to play the opening to Hammerfall's Legacy of Kings.

Later, we are in a hotel room. Nyar looks up at me and jumps up for my shoulder without my arms even being ready to hold her. Cute.

"Last night I had a vivid dream: I found a place where nothing's what it seems."

6/18/08

I am riding sidecar to a bicycle that Father is driving through the first floor of an overcrowded (market-style), but well-lit indoor mall at night. Bright white lights all around, but the sky is notably dark. We wind around until we reach our goal, some kind of tickets.

We ride off, where the scene rapidly changes to me in a small wooden house. Mother and Sister are also both there, as are some girls who are some kind of metaphorical hippies. They claim that wearing clothes is unnecessary, as is leaving the front door closed (let alone locked).

In time, a craggy 40+ fisherman discovers us. He steps into the house at some point, and backhands one of the girls with a knife. Her blood sprays and she dies a violent death. The rest is a slasher movie.

We discover a ragged housecat wandering through the grotty home and the open streets. Eventually, more appear. We find later that the cats are in league with, or possibly, ARE the murderers, and they are ‘receiving orders’ through communication some other entity via a dusty mirror in the back room. The whole thing reels with terror.

6/15/08

I am trying to take a group picture with the cast of That 70's Show, but there was difficulty getting the picture to take. A couple of spiders crawling just above people's heads/shoulders routinely ruin pictures, moods.

The picture wasn't working, but there were double elevators behind the group and this very short businesswoman, accompanied by 6 large men show up in the elevator. We are on top of a prison, and the men are all convicts, and some are absolute pedophiles, every part the stereotypical description of a pedophile you've ever seen

Then Warhammer appears, and the question arises of whether miniature orc armies might actually be real. The ones in question have fucking INSANE paint jobs - extremely well textured, with deep greens and purples - kind of a visceral bowels-of-the-earth appearance to them, nothing you'd expect out of real objects. Perhaps there's something to this Cyclopean business.

6/14/08

Big concert that I’ve gotten tickets to. There are seven of us, or so, including Legend. In Flames, Opeth, and Disturbed. I’m excited to have Legend there. Brought all my shit, including 2 bags, and 3 typewriters. This group of thugs start fucking with them. I think they were Hispanic - something similar to Crash's Ricky Verona. I start pushing them off my stuff, but there are too many. My attempt to dissuade them with incoherent babblings of madness and rivers of blood does nothing. Jerry Stiller comes over in a wheelchair, says some quote by Stephen King about standing up for yourself and persuades them to leave with one gesture of one of their arms.

The concert begins – the whole place is some kind of converted church – very small, stage in the ¾-ed square with only a few seats. Mine has some kind of safety bar coming out over it. My height prevents me from sitting there. There is some dilemma about ripping the bar out of the wall, as it is both in the way and loose.



I am walking through the upper hallways of a high school. There’s a carnival or fair going on outside. A couple is playing hide and go seek with their son. I spy the son, about 7, curled up and counting in a car of a ferris wheel – he has clearly crawled through a window in the school to get there, and is not secured at all. I don’t say anything at first, to not spoil game. The wheel is constructed very bizarrely. 2 elliptical tracks run through one another, something like the shape of a butterfly's wings carved out between them. Cars rotate quickly along the track, and spin independently, each car barely missing the next one coming from the opposite wheel at the two plaecs they intersect. The boy is lost, and a race begins to return him to his now hysterical parents.

The carnival is actually quite terrifying. Clowns and jesters from a Renaissance era are covered in deep browns and whites, quite unlike the bright colors normally associated with them -- they are caked in dirt and covered in filth. The carnival itself now seems horribly twisted, and The Gallows doesn’t seem like a fun ride, but people take it anyway. The corpses are flung down into a gaping pit of raw flesh and pulped bodies below the wooden stage's hatch. The son is flung down in some sort of 50’s-style fabric-lined suitcase. Fishing out the suitcase, he is inside, curled into a ball in a giant plastic bag. Still alive, but covered in this muck. Looking up, it seems that Wizard is marrying Agent, half just to prove some kind of point to Chewie.



I am in a hotel room not dissimilar to my own. The family leaves, heading for parts unknown. I rifle through a deck of cards, many of which have faces, both distinct and generic on them, in cartoonish style. The back of the deck seems to have an entirely different game on them. What kind of a game officially declares a 10-minute delay in case of fudge? There are shoes on the bed. They seem to belong to Kitten. I have an overwhelming need to return them, but I cannot figure out how to do so. The Swineherd have actually gathered at Master’s house, to nerd it up. I am bound to go with them, if only I can find my way.

6/8/08

Some of us visit this woman’s house. She is extremely sexy in a girl-next-door sort of way, despite her improbable chest. While discussing whatever business we may have with her, the need to spontaneously fuck her grows rapidly. At one moment while she turns away, I notice her computer’s monitor, which is running through an elaborate screen saver of porn – apparently she is a distributor of some kind and is also a nymphomaniac.

I resolve that I need to sneak into her house with stolen keys, making a thorough search for her own collections. Part of me also hopes that if she discovers me, one outcome might be the two of us having wild spontaneous sex, certainly of the sex-that-shouldn’t-happen variety that seems so mischievously arousing.

Crawling through her house, I feel I am reaching my goal, though I cannot recall ever finding any concrete goods. At one moment, I am forced to hide along an improbable shelf in her daughter’s room, a thin multi-inch platform with teddy bears that for some reason is reachable by a minor staircase.

One imagines that the sex occurs.

The entire world changes, moving all of us into some kind of enormous warehouse. Over time, more and more people enter the warehouse – distributors, gangland, police agents, thugs, wrestlers, and a bizarre mix of people. This entire portion occurs with me ¾-awake, somehow a strong illusion that I can prompt while my subconscious continues to operate most of the affair before my eyes. There is something about lines along the floor connecting people.

6/3/08

Black Crabs. The size of one’s torso. They try to tell me the secret mysteries of the past. Something happened to me, something important. They pull themselves in fast numbers, swarming over a number of people into the solution.

Obnoxious French girl in my building. She is secretly attracted to me, and she is beautiful in a hidden-away sort of way. Her marriage can only cause problems, but it is ignored.

For a moment, there is Harvard in the food court.

AC throws a party, demanding that it not be mild.

6/2/08

Am out with Sister, browsing convenience stores on our cross-country trip* across the South* heading East towards Institution. In one store, there is a pornstar, fucking some guy on a small stage. We watch fascinated until she takes it all over herself. In the meantime, we make posters for her, some misspelled. She storms out to drink herself into oblivion with her douchebag boyfriend. I make some crack about following her to the bar, so we can see her get hammered twice in one day.

We continue down the trail, accumulating more people, including Kitten. At some point we turn back to find the pornstar in a van with her boyfriend. There is need to tackle the guy and keep him down. Brian from Spaced is there as well, and decides to stab the guy in the hand a few times with a fork. He does it to me at least once, too. Pain.

Reunited, we all head back towards Institution. Another van is filled with customized hats. They all belong to DeCap.

Kitten and I never get a chance to crawl back into bed together before the alarm, but there is a great feeling of reunion after time.

5/31/08

At first, it's just Mario Kart. I am dead last, eternally 12th place, despite whatever astral help there is to give me the speed and power of invincibility on my motorcycle. Eventually, it becomes less of Mario Kart - more of an arcade game. Then even that becomes real life, burning down the streets at obscene angles just because I can.

It becomes clear that I am a hitman.

I ride through several loops of the city, including bad parts of the neighborhood, scattering dozens of Crips, each with their long blue-numbered white jerseys and azure bandanas flying in the wind behind them.

On the 3rd such loop, I move slightly onto an incomplete bridge, perhaps for some kind of monorail - flying up at the grossest of angles, and then released into the air. I barely crash through the corner window of an office building, after first throwing my helmet at the glass and then myself. The cycle seems to come in with me.

Inside, I am dazed, perhaps even cut, but not bleeding terribly. A man stops to help me, more out of his own confusion than any altruism of his own - it seems to be the Moroccan villain from Casino Royale. In moments, an insane bearded man, raving about pain and laughing maniacally, bursts through another window, splintered with guns. We wrestle over his arsenal, individually seizing upon guns, machineguns inside boxes the size of cameras, knives, and ultimately, flamethrowers, which I turn upon him. He falls screaming from the window engulfed in his own flames.

Moments later, he returns again, cover in ash and unrecognizable. A kick delivers him from the windowsill. I stand on the ledge looking down at him, as the view pulls back to see some kind of pixie-like assassin standing on the roof.

Taking the cycle back, I fly across the divide between buildings on the bike, crashing through to see Ted Kennedy*, my main contact for the delivery of hits. We have a brief conversation that is interrupted by the sounds of lovemaking behind us, where we can see the man I just left fucking a beautiful exotic girl as loudly as he can.


There are more hits - eventually I turn on the man as he is abusing my righteous ways of only killing the evil. In his abuse, he, too, has become a target.

5/4/08

Walking from the Lot to the Home, I am accompanied by three persons. One is* Jesper Stromblad, though he has brown hair. Another is an ogre of a man - a hulking mass covered in slabs of muscle flowing down from close-cropped hair over his bowed shoulders. The third I do not identify.

"Jesper, what's it like being the main creative element for In Flames? I also wanted to thank you for your work in building Hammerfall."
"That wasn't me. I never wrote a damn thing."
"*stunned*"

Arriving at the Home, the Home is actually just a small house with all of the Home's hundreds of residents living in it. I recognize Captain and Crimson among the people, it would seem that Fred reigns here as well. There is quite the party going on - all the house's rooms and lawns are covered in the paraphenalia of lost clothes, red Solo cups, and unconscious fool.

The man wants to kill me.

He has stalked me all through the night at this party, waiting his chance, and I only just now realized it. I must remove him and get out.

I go to the lawn, and start whipping the partiers into a frenzy. Shortly afterward, I go inside to call the police on the riots outside, hiding upstairs to ensure my own safety. Sirens come.

Sirens go.

Dead silence, all lights save the streets' outside are extinguished, leaving only pale amber beams drifting through the windows.

He is here.

I must get out.

I open the front door to find the horror. The house's dog has been mutilated. Blood stains everything, still dripping freshly from the small picketed banister lining the porch and all the walls surrounding the front door. The dog's decapitated body is crucified on the porch's wall.

I must get my keys.

I dash inside, grab the keys, and hurtle through a small door. Cowering in a corner of the house's outer walls. Shaking in the dark with my own impending mortality.

I dropped the keys. I have to go back into the house to get them. And then he will murder me.

The fear is incredible.

This can't be real - this is a dream - I will this dream to end.

It does not.



"Dreaming. I must be Dreaming. I can't remember dying..."

5/19/08

Kitten meets Mother, though Kitten looks like Corset. They converse fluently while I fumble over a cup of water.


End of line.

It's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream, it's only a dream...

What the fuck...


What the fuck is wrong with me? Why is that I have murdered half the people I know - women I've slept with, people I've lived with, my own family, even myself more than a dozen times? Why do buildings crumble, cities burn, and plains run deep with the blood that flows through their own new visceral appearance of flesh?

Walls come alive, great yawning mouths consume me, girls step from corridors steeped in their own gore, and officials gladly gnaw their limbs from their own bodies while great sweeping grins crawl over their lips and spread their teeth shining towards the glistening red suns above them. My best laid plans for staying alive are dashed to the ground by hunting wildmen who have crucified the dog and removed its head in the time it took the police to drive away.

Murder is a standard... Hell is open... And no one seems to care...



The human brain, this impressive machine that for all we know is the universe's only source of creativity, ingenuity, and love, is more readily the only source of evil as well. The mind IS Pandora's Box. Each night when we sleep, we give a peak inside, and all the horrors we know, and worse still, those we don't, spill out, over our subconscious, over our souls. They leave their dark stain. Though we live through it all, safe in our beds, it stains us, and for the rest of our days, we know what lurks in our minds. You let nothing out, you went in for a visit.

So what the fuck...

Every night is an exercise in self-destruction, watching your life get picked apart by the random pieces of lurking doubt, anger, and fear that you have so lovingly nurtured through your years.

This is my Pandora's Box - my fears, my horrors, my tragedies relived and recorded here, where a pen was not fast enough to record them by paper.


"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown..."