I wrote a new song very early this morning. Working title: “6th Fl., Rm. 7″. I like it enough to consider including it on the next Ky. Prophet album.
The title came to me in a disturbing dream I had the night before. The finale of the dream was that I was sent to my pod in a large, futuristic prison-entertainment complex. My pod was #7 on the sixth floor. It was a small room, reminds me now of when my family would go to visit my grandmother’s mother at the Roosevelt House. Small room, big enough for one person to live in. I’ll try to sketch the map of the complex in Paint later on.
The song has one note, played on an organ preset staccato to resemble the sound of a heart monitor like you would find in a hospital. The dream and the song have no other connection beyond the title. In the dream I am an inmate but in the song I’m a mental patient. I believe people will find this song disturbing once they hear it.
The dream I had the other night was very disturbing. It started with two people discovering a mass grave in an abandoned car lot. All of the bodies were individually wrapped in plastic tarps very tightly. The two men, one of which was a county deputy, kept pulling body after body out of this rotted hole in a small hill. Perhaps the hill wouldn’t have been there if not for the bodies. When you bury a body, you displace the ground that was there first so it looks like a lump when it’s finally packed in. The more bodies, the bigger the hump, I guess. Possibly as many as twenty dead bodies in this rotted hillside.
From there, I ended up in an office building engaged in a series of shootouts. I get shot in both sequences. The first time I’m a terrorist in a corporate office and I get filled with bullets from a machine gun. I could feel as I dreamt where the bullets landed. By the end of the first bit, I was riddled with bullets.
The second dream, I was in a back room of the same building and this time I was trying to stop a group of terrorists from entering the main office. There were seven of them against me. I picked off four of them before they finally killed me. This was a less gruesome death than the first one.
I was a passive observer in the first one, and the gunfights were cinema verite. But the last one was the strangest of all, as there was a figure meant to represent me but he didn’t look like me at all. He looks more like Jason Patric in the film Rush, but that is the one I identify as “me”. It is revealed that I have been strung along by a conniving prison warden who has decided he is tired of toying with me so he releases me back to my pod. The one on the sixth floor, pod #7.
When I go in, I see the warden sitting in a comfy chair across from three other people I don’t recognize. At one point I see the warden open his mouth and out flies a set of pinchers/suction/digestion devices, long and stringy. He throws these from his mouth onto the man sitting in the chair across from him and uses these pinchers to take the man into his mouth whole. I run into the bathroom and cower behind the door afraid to see for myself what is happening but I can see the shadow on the wall where the man fights for life while his lower half is being eaten by the warden who has decided to return to his natural alien form. Eventually, the shadow gives up and dies.
No, I have not been taking melatonin.
Tags: dreams
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