letters
to an unknown audience
-----------------------
~
Our Neptacular Correspondents/  /November 21, 2002
Dream this morning I'm in a gorgeous, intricate city of four-story brick buildings. A yoga class fails and I go out wandering; my tiny cousin appears at one of the high windows and starts following me around.

There are drafting tables which act as sharp, high-contrast, low-eyestrain displays: and I can browse a web of sorts this way. Was I on some kind of quest to find something? A friend and I bobble from page to page, kibitzing. All the while some horror is taking place in the distance—agonized screams of "sarah. . . Sarah. . . SARAH!! SAAACHCHCHC RAAAAAAAAAH!" waft in occassionally, and a zombie or some such will walk by from time to time, carrying a mangled child and looking disaffected. (It's nothing to laugh at. You'd lose your affect too, if you were undead.)

My cousin returns from somewhere and needs some moral advice. The friend I was browsing with suddenly has a dozen technical questions. My old boss appears and needs something from me. A half dozen people are lined up on either side of me waiting to have a chance to tug on my sleeve. "Saaaraaaah!!!"

Waking, I discovered this magnificent invention. As we used to say, who was the marketing genius. . .?

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