Dream Log: January 10, 2000

I'm on a four-lane-wide road. I begin here, at its lowest point; it's all uphill from here. There's a slight flow of red-clay-colored water - the beginnings of a flood. The road is deserted, except for a man who tells me to get up the hill and find shelter - the impending thunderstorm will cause massive flooding. Or worse. We head uphill. I tell him my aunt and uncle live in this town, so I'll head over to their house, but when I mention the name of the town, neither he or our companions (where'd they come from?) recognize the name. Grey skies.

We arrive at a posh party, but the party atmosphere is tempered by the upcoming storm. I'm sitting on a couch with She #1; we're holding onto each other, marveling at the terrifying storm. It's not the end of the world. Is it?

She #2 is the more serious of the two, saving the whales and such. She disapproves of a clown such as I, methinks. I can feel the distancing.

I'm supposed to sing? Been there, done that, nearly passed out one rehearsal from dizziness - I wasn't breathing right. But here I am again, singing, just to show you guys what a bad idea this is. After a rough beginning, it actually sounds good, even operatic in quality. Now I can't stop singing, though I know few words. You can't shut me up. Even an opera-loving buddy likes it. So the nature of the band changes, I guess; how shall we build things around this new discovery? And what am I supposed to sing?

I run into She #2 at an elevator. We both get in; she greets me with a kiss on the cheek and a smile. I return the favor, planting my kiss on the side of her lips.

The Carlosian Dream Project

Part 2

See Part 1

Darkness

A broken Baron Carlos lies shattered on the floor of The Realm of Darkness.
His body a scattered mass of empty shell, cracked and broken.

No life, just lifeless shell.

The adversary stands over the wreckage. His shoes are black.

The peices of shell crack under his feet.

A view to the side, as a woman enters.

She is dressed in black, and the shadows cover her face, and red hair.

She wraps herself around the man, congradulating him, and his victory.

The man kneels down, and picks up a peice of Carlos' shell, it is the remains of BaronCarlos' face.

Still.

Silent.

Stoic.

The face has no expression.
It is pure black, and lifeless as if off a statue.

In the man's black gloved hand, he takes the mask and smashes it violently into the floor of the realm of darkness.

The face breaks like glass as fragments and shrapnel flood the room.

The woman laughs with delight.

Part 3