I dreamed I wrote. In my dream, I wrote He writes. He writes Alex. Alexander Hammil dreams and in his dreams he writes Alexander Hammil, with a flourish. In his dreams he writes Alexander Hammil (with a flourish) is dreaming. He takes pen in hand and pen to paper and writes. The room where he writes is muddled, protean, uncertain. Its walls flex and wave with subconscious currents; windows as seaweed, solid posts of the bedframe so much coral. Clouds drift through, cluster around the shaggy mountain of his head.
He writes Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger are arguing about who jumps out of the plane first. They’re very funny, because this is an old argument. Neither of them is flying the plane. There was a pilot, but she’s dead now, small sad hole in her neck. There were attendants, but they’re dead now, too, necks snapped, choked on machine gun straps, killed with their own historic swords.
“Dammit, you got the pilot, I get to jump,” smirks Willis.
“Ha, you think so?” snorts Arnold. “Now it is my turn!”
Down below in the ruins of the Fire and Steamworks, Dolph Lundgren sprints for cover, wizard tucked into his arms like a football. The wizard fires some lighting into the goons clustered on the catwalks. A few tumble off, screaming; there will be more.
“This is hardly dignified,” complains the wizard.
“Man, don’t bother me now,” snaps Lundgren. “I got big plans to unravel!”