So, another dream of note. Its conclusion woke me up – Gordon Brown and I think Alan Duncan but could have been someone else – in a business or shop of some kind. The owner burst through a door, killing us all with three clean gun shots to the head. Focusing here on something other than me dreaming of our Prime Minister, work instead on the hyper-realism of some of the details – shimmer of light against the windows of passing traffic, the headmasterly click-scrape-click of shoes against pavement. We ended up talking about voting reform, I think, but prior to this I am sure that the men to whom I was talking – and in my dreams they may have been a representation of Mssrs Brown and Duncan – were bouncing and skipping along elevated platforms at one point.
The assassination was a conclusion to a sprawling mass of narrative. A very attractive and buxom young woman was the lead character of an entertaining musical in which I played no part. As though the brain was channel-hopping, I watched as she stole money through some form of credit card scam, than sang about it during a song-and-dance number straight from the most camp Broadway show imaginable. Quite what this long entertaining passage (three, five, maybe more minutes, or so I perceived) was doing filtering through my consciousness I cannot gather.
I wake with a murmur of babbling recollection. Dreams fading from a stained colour to white-noise, and then disappear into translucent frames vanishing into the air. Silence of a deeper, darker form rests in the room. Onwards, push the important thoughts and considerations, onwards away from dance routines and death. Far more relevant things to consider now…For one, dreaming about Gordon Brown, good lord….