mrry (Happy New Year)
Dreams Man on the Moon 7/Apr/2003

It is late on a Thursday night, and I am in my bedroom with my parents. I switch on the computer, but it keeps getting only so far, then rebooting, and the screen is flickering as if the vertical hold is broken.

Defeated, I try to turn the computer off, but this doesn't work either. Instead, I try to turn off the monitor, but doing that merely restarts the computer. There are three power switches on the monitor, and I cannot find the combination of these that will switch it off. Eventually I fall into a somnolent stupor.

It is now Friday morning, and seven minutes to nine o'clock; it is also still dark. I have a university class at nine, and am worried about getting to it on time. The computer appears to have settled down, and we are able to leave.

My parents offer me a lift to university, which relieves some of my worries. I head out to the car, before realising that I have left my bag and my jacket in my room. I run back in and upstairs, and fetch these. On my way back down the stairs, I notice that the light is still on in the spare room.

At this point, I assume the character of Jim Carrey, who in turn is acting in the persona of Andy Kaufman, who himself is acting in the persona of Latka Gravas, from Taxi. I attribute seeing the light on to Carrey's "crazy mind", but double back nonetheless to take a look in the room.

Inside the room is not the spare room, but a 1950's bathroom, with a tiled floor, and tiles half-the-way up the walls. The walls and floor are bloodspattered, and a name (which I cannot remember, and take to be my character's name) is written in red on the far wall.

I turn around, and expect to be confronted by a maniac killer, or some such, but instead see my charater's mother (not my mother), who looks typically 1950's.

She tells me that everything's OK, and tells me I should do more to communicate with others. She suggests that I should write a letter. Looking out the window, I see a clifftop peninsula, and a row of houses. In one of those houses, I tell her, there lives a man (Mr. _) who writes letters to himself, because knows nobody else to whom he can write. She tells me that he writes lots of letters.






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