Let me tell you my dream, the boy said, holding up a finger. I was in my father’s car. I cut myself on the dial of the radio of my father’s car. The knob broke off; my hand broke off. I felt for it in the seats and under them. When I looked up, the car was moving. It was moving in circles in the grass. The radio grew louder and louder.
I too was in my father’s car, the girl said, looking down. I cut myself on the steering wheel. My feet were nubs of bone. There was no gas pedal, no brake pedal. Just a falling-out hole in the floorboard, a void for falling, falling into.
The boy nodded.
Now hear this. The priest was drowning the boy in the place of worship. A great and silent splashing. The organ soared metallic, sidereal above our heads. Down the well the dead boy swam. There were tables and chairs at the ancient source. Comets in the honeypot.
Yes, said the girl. These are symbols and signs, the deep down stuff of the world. Likewise the woman bathing in the fountain, as cold and hard as stone. I did not eschew remembrance. We were larger than the trees.
And the man with the pick and the grappling hook? The soaring eagle of portent?
Yes, they were also in the dream I had.
The boy nodded. It is good to have dreams and tell them. I dreamt of generals holding sodas, their penises erect. All were gloriously adorned. Glistening. Clutching at the stiffness.
I dreamt of generals with no penises or names.
The boy nodded. It is good to have dreams and to tell them. Listen now: the generals holding sodas, their penises stiff. All was adorned. Elucidate.
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