Sometimes you've just got to write down your dreams, here or abroad.
I have been newly hired at the Intelligencer/Record, the bustling newsroom on Easton Road in Horsham, PA, where I used to work.
It no longer bustles.
Lou Sessinger, my former boss, sits over in a corner, typing on a manual typewriter. I hear him pushing the carriage return.
I am sitting at a desk, next to a shadowy woman - there are other shadowy figures coming and going - when I look up and announce in an amazed voice "I don't have a thing to do!"
Sessinger shrugs his shoulders. People come and go and soon it becomes clear that they have nothing to do either.
You see, the Record, a subsidiary of the Intelligencer, is no longer printed.
I sit back in my chair and think. It's awfully hard finding a new job. Shall I work here and just pretend to work?
A dream to preserve that which is lost and cannot be preserved - save in dreams and stories - poems, even.
ReplyDeleteand bill, you were right! the mysterious plant IS marijuana! but i never inhale.
ReplyDeleteThat explains the dream...
ReplyDelete