we must find the reporter's home, it is leering in the chiming farmland wind. he has said foolish things. he wears too-tight suits, his head a grey far-too-tall buzzcut. he talks with my deep brokaw voice. tightened, angry, tense, agitated.
we have psychic powers, we can change the electricity. this group knows secrets among the moon-swept plain. we will cause blackouts, stranger things then. we will wander in office chairs across abandoned cities made of flower shops and red paved curbs, cut into the valleys. looking for red energy drinks and 40s. youthful privilege and concurrent rebellion. we will ride these chairs down hills into supermarkets of indefinite objects. disrupting corporate order, causing chaos in our midst. we will break the tension from our minds into the exterior world, causing pranks of terror which send social shivers through their sheer audacity at being beyond the pale of reality and the non-paranormal. our muscles will make us fly across dark forests at will, in the mental bindings of magick.
we have found his home. we have jeered and broken mailboxes outside. we are youthful rebellion. I doubt our success.
when dreams come near their termination my mind finds the most delirious, terrifying, and invigorating lucidity. a state where I feel physical sensations. dissociation ends, and a new reality is simultaneously built and operated, controlled. I can feel my eyelids move above the new solid and authentic artifice, my mouth spit out the saliva made from breathing hard and shallow through my mouth instead of my tense congested nostrils. yet I control everything in the dream.
therefore I return, I see that rooms in the reporter's house are abandoned. the lights have been destroyed, the remaining electronics in the room are in the trash barrel, or they are the trash barrel, flickering in and out with the chattering beeping of disconnection and malfunction. we have succeeded somewhat, and I understand our power. he is off somewhere watching himself in the operational room, keeping track of the world so that he may build new words, new interpretations for tomorrow night. he is as unaware of my presence as my parents when I wander their house late at night. asleep in focus on the television.
I break away from the desert. I want more control of the great night. I return to my old home. I am wandering deliriously. I think hard thoughts, tense the muscles of my head, every limb of my body. the light switches are all turned off. the lights turn on, with a shrill electronic ring, like the ring of blood pulsing in my ears but outside my body. I have willed them into being. the house is barely constructed yet its presence is entirely lucid. I float up to the ceiling at will, turning more lights on with my mind, succeeding some of the time, failing the rest. I feel the terror of this control of new realities. I feel the spit falling out of my real body's mouth. I feel that I am in a state of total fugue, and I am terrified yet strong. I wish for more control but only the surroundings remain my creation, I have only the powers of my waking life remaining. I escape before the delusion possesses me, my eyelids flutter open, the skin of the dream decays like burning film before my open eyelids. I am truly awake. and terrified to fall asleep again.