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I had that dream again.

In the dream, I somehow find myself in this large, stygian mansion full of winding corridors of darkness. Each door, I fear, awaits something new.

I don't even bother to open any door. In the center of the main hall is a staircase in all its polished grandeur, leading up to a catwalk-type second floor flanks by a view of the hall and several gargantuan windows that stretch from my knee height to somewhere close to the roof.

It's the middle of the night, it's raining, and blue-tinted lightning flashes across the windows, leaving afterimages burned into my vision.

I look across the series of catwalks to see a blurry, black figure stand there and then instantly vanish as soon as I may gaze meets his.

I turns back. The windows are now gone, replaced by solid wall.

A chandelier appears, its candles flickering as though being lilted by the wind. I don't feel wind; however, the candles blow out, a gust of wind blows through, and the chandelier crashes to the floor.

At this moment, a barrage of spiders and snakes begin creeping their way up the main staircase. I exclaim, before turning away to run. As I heard the sounds of those crawlies making hissing and small insectile chittering sounds. I note that, as my body is propelled forward towards what appears to be the only door that hasn't faded away completely, the darkness swirls around me, pauses, and then swoops down at me like some sort of shadowy bird poising for its attack.

As I run, I hear sounds of bombs and a car speeding, its tires tearing through asphalt. I turn back to witness a pair of headlights lung at me. I duck.

It starts to get windy again. I'm panting, my skin caked with sweat and anticipation and fear, when finally I reach the door, swinging it open and pacing through it. It closed behind me.

In front of me, a cleancut version of me wearing a navy blue three-piece suit sat on a chair and watched a movie (a 1955 film noir I had recently caught on TCM called "House of Bamboo") being projected from an old projector. The reel, I observed, was a bright shimmery gold. 

My double turned to me in his chair.

"They have them", they said.

There was a flash of a 1940's-era green-and-yellow automobile (a car I later determined to be a 1947 Nash 500) , speed down a raining hill.

I then woke up.


I've had trouble writing lately, I get the chills more often, and get the mental picture of being bound, gagged, and lobotomized with an ice pick. I try to clear it out of my mind, but it stays there.

Hopefully I get better soon.

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