Eight (and one half)

This one, I think, has something to do with a computer game, and seeing someone I know/knew in the street, after assuming he was still living in Utah (which he had done). In addition, and totally non related, yesterday evening some men engaged in a bottle fight outside my house. I was in that weird transitional phase of sleep, where the night's reality blended with odd hallucinations. I woke in the morning asking Zoe why we hadn't reacted to the combination of fighting men and church bells ringing to alert people of the coming apocalypse. She informed me the latter didn't happen. The men weren't fighting each other for 'survival' as I had imagined.

'On a train, a GNER one before they went all National Express (quite why I was bothered by this at 4am when I wrote it I will never remember), with a man swathed in a headscarf. For the whole of this dream my eyes fail to properly work, and I rub and blink repeatedly hoping they will become fixed. The train goes down a steep hill and has to stop because the tunnel it wants to go through is blocked. Dang. Some of us get out and walk. It looks like Stalker, or rather the book Roadside Picnic. Myself and David Leah, who appears as some bandaged transsexual, rush ahead into an industrial style lift, leaving bemused passengers behind. Having followed it up, we get out and emerge in to an abandoned warehouse. We are surrounded by knackered furniture, which I climb over. I follow some stairs up, past a series of small fires, all the time feeling something terrible has happened, like humanity has collapsed, and our pointless little world with it. Someone is chasing me now, I hear footsteps behind me, so I climb higher and higher. The person or thing is gaining. At the top of the stairs is a piece of MDF, which symbolises the end of the dream.'

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Fifteen + Sixteen

Long pause between posts owing to house moving and a lack of internet connection for over six weeks. Most frustrating. The intervening period has however furnished me with some new and skewed meanderings inside the subconscious underworld. The first, as you can guess from the reference to a certain daily newspaper, is from a while ago. The second (a double post to make up for the absence) came from a book I found whilst packing that contains notes on a defunct record label, conversations not appropriate for verbal discussion and occasional nocturnal recollections. 15. A warehouse, not dissimilar to Asda, where everything comes in multicoloured stacked boxes. Most boxes hold copies of The Times. I tell someone that they're not selling because they're not as cool as the new Berliner format Guardian (depressing how sad I am even in dreams). Later, am on an island, a little like the one in Lost. At one point I even ask when Walt is coming back. There are a crack team of commandos a

Seventy Four

The city has been invaded by some sort of 14th century Shogunesque army. They've taken over the giant bathhouse/restaurant, akin to the one from the film Spirited Away. We attempt to retake it by crossing a bridge, carefully balancing on taught wires [I've been playing a lot of Ghost of Tsushima], but archers lean from upstairs windows: they fire down at us, and I see bodies plunge into the river below. I try and alternative tactic for entry, taking an alleyway behind the building, but before I am able to help I become entranced by the unusual intersecting pipework that criss-crosses the space . Staring dumbly at the patterns, I hear the battle continue in the distance.

Sixty Eight

In some sort of wasteland, possibly Malton from urbandead but in reality. The buildings and general lay out of the space appears to be a grid system, dark green, crisscrossing and bisecting the land; it resembles a giant board game. The sky is muted orange, and I have a feeling there is something lurking in the increasing shadows that dusk has introduced. Someone who I am with shows me around their flat. From the window I see abandoned car parks, and in the distance lakes and mountains, though this view is partially obscured by smoke rising from refineries that seem to encircle the town. The light is falling away. No-one is on the street when I am taken to the next house. The view from the window is the other house. Each subsequent place I am shown around offers a view of the preceding property. I am caught in a loop of property viewing, with some unknown menace responsible for the trap I find myself in.

A Disintegration Loop

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