The idea that our dreams are somehow prophetic, or at the very least suggestive of our mental peculiarities has fascinated our collective unconscious, since, let’s say, cro-magnon-man, who upon waking one morning realized that “all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration — that we are all one consciousness experiencing itself subjectively. There is no such thing as death; life is only a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves…”*

He went on to beat his wife senseless with a club before leaving town for Los Angeles where he hoped to star in parts one, two, three, and seven of the soon-to-be-infamous Chain of Gorgon series.

Last night I dreamt that I was running from a parade of machete-wielding sociopaths whose plan for world domination relied upon the acquisition of a pine box which they would submerge into the depths of the ocean carrying their Commander.

The other part of the story involved a hybrid of Austin Scarlett (look it up, I’m too ashamed to provide the hyperlink) and Matt Smith (No, I have NOT begun season two yet, please don’t spoil anything for me), who, as a man of action was required to swim across a nondescript room whereupon he was sucked into the bathroom by a magnetic or vacuum force of some kind in order to close a portal to another dimension. He returned a moment later in frustration, opened the door to the adjacent room, and flushed the toilet. Here, I was ashamed, knowing the tiny turd flowing down the stream was mine (Why did I not flush!) and that somehow this had irrevocably ruined his master plan.

The night before Donald Trump offered me a mortgage at the competitive rate of 8%.

I guess what I am trying to say is this: we have so little time here, and most of it is spent horizontal. And that while it would be great to make some sense out of the third of our lives we spend in symbolic nonsense, most of us have a hard time justifying the research. I generally do my investigation while in “down dog,” which yogis would likely frown upon (if I legitimately try and clear my mind, by the way, all I can do is think about death and eternity, so fuck off).

I look at the figures in my dream. Familiar faces, themes. At the end I am always left with a feeling. Fear, doubt, longing, anticipation, nostalgia. Sometimes a smell. Sometimes the backwards half-life of an incomplete song. It’s not enough to analyze, but it does allow me to paint a picture.

And if death is nothing but a dream, I want to be prepared to avoid over-interpretation.

*Quote by Bill Hicks.