Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Thursday, November 11, 2004

November 11, 2004

Roadworking scrapers careening along desert road not fixed in parts. Dark with no signs and no highway lights but I can make out their shapes from some moonlight somewhere but no moon. Standing with no jacket. Cold.
Tires like tank treads elongated but still rolling somehow. Dusty now and throat dry. Need water. See a pool but looking closely see it's covered with oily prismatic sheen like a tanker slick. Tanks and tankers. Menacing vehicles.

Typing at a keyboard on strange metal computer--not my Mac but not PC. Keys gummy-sticking and holding single strokes to produceeeeeee reppppppetitions can't stop it. Buzzing, clicking sounds emanating. Shut down by pulling plug not on/off button. Large warning in red flashing danger warning. Machine hot to the touch and now smoking. Running out with our adopted cat Ignatz she's protesting and afraid--scratches me badly. No blood but white streaks opened on arms like before blood flow begins.

LAX terminal but more like Burbank too small and not enough people--worker tells me the change is terrorist related and I'm screaming 'you dumb fucks whyareyoudoingthis to everyone it's all a scare tactic don't believe these creeps!' Everyone stares and big beefy redneck football player scary-slits for eyes stands up to me and I feel dwarfed. He yells 'Gonna kill you now, it's time to die--that was my father riding in the tanks commanding as you saw it in the desert, and it was your omen'. I run and cops all around but they don't notice me. I have on the sort of mask children wear on Halloween--cheap and with factory plastic odor--I put my tongue through the mouth breathing hole too small and it gets caught so I yank it off and tongue cuts.


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