October 27, 2006
The twenty-fifth dream: I'm in the old skillet foundry. The windows are all broken out. It's night, but the men are at their machines, shirtless, shining with sweat, and shoveling sand into their molds. I can feel my legs lifting my shovel. There are bugs in the sand, and I can feel the heat as they pour the molten iron into my molds. I feel a seizure coming. I'm at the blast furnace, watching the scrap iron melting in with the new, the slag floating on top, dripping over the sides. Grasshoppers are crawling out of the furnace.