October 10, 2006
The eighth dream: I am inside a large dark place. A pinhole of light is growing far above me. The sound of tornadoes shakes the sky. Louder, a locomotive is pounding toward me, but I can't tell where it is, which way to duck. I can feel the horn bellow. I'm covering my ears against the pain. Grit is raining down on me, into my hair, spitting through my teeth. My head is cracking and I am splitting open like a ripe oak log, cleanly, end-to-end. I can feel the rip of the nine-pound maul moving through me.