My recent dreams last night, before waking up:
The building is very far from modern. It's very similar to in the British TV drama, The Hour, in that it looks like the BBC news rooms from the 1950s. In the dream, I am on one side of the wall, and on the other side are steps descending into a stairwell. There's an old clock on the wall, which suddenly starts to sputter from its centre. Sparks fly out, and as I watch it, the middle of the clock suddenly bursts into orange flames. I try to press the buttons that will call the fire service, and try to smash the emergency glass. There are at least three antiquated machines, that I try to activate, by punching necessary buttons. Bloodlessly and stoic, a 1950s guy picks up the phone and says, "the police." He is notifying the police and not the fire brigade.
I quickly check and the fire has died in the centre of the clock. It's not an emergency any longer, but it could have been. The 1950s guy replaces the phone on its shoulder and says, "Replacement bulbs can only be obtained in Melbourne. We can't get them otherwise. Is anybody going to Melbourne today?"
In another dream, more disturbingly, I am wrestling with a much older woman. She suddenly takes pity on me and says, "What's wrong?"
I notice I have bandages to dress my chest, and one of my nipples has come off, much like a pimple might if you were to cover it in chemical fluid. I look and consider how unexpected it was that my nipple has slid off. At first I didn't notice, but then when I thought about it, that was what was missing. I find it under the bandage and try to restore it to its original position.
The building is very far from modern. It's very similar to in the British TV drama, The Hour, in that it looks like the BBC news rooms from the 1950s. In the dream, I am on one side of the wall, and on the other side are steps descending into a stairwell. There's an old clock on the wall, which suddenly starts to sputter from its centre. Sparks fly out, and as I watch it, the middle of the clock suddenly bursts into orange flames. I try to press the buttons that will call the fire service, and try to smash the emergency glass. There are at least three antiquated machines, that I try to activate, by punching necessary buttons. Bloodlessly and stoic, a 1950s guy picks up the phone and says, "the police." He is notifying the police and not the fire brigade.
I quickly check and the fire has died in the centre of the clock. It's not an emergency any longer, but it could have been. The 1950s guy replaces the phone on its shoulder and says, "Replacement bulbs can only be obtained in Melbourne. We can't get them otherwise. Is anybody going to Melbourne today?"
In another dream, more disturbingly, I am wrestling with a much older woman. She suddenly takes pity on me and says, "What's wrong?"
I notice I have bandages to dress my chest, and one of my nipples has come off, much like a pimple might if you were to cover it in chemical fluid. I look and consider how unexpected it was that my nipple has slid off. At first I didn't notice, but then when I thought about it, that was what was missing. I find it under the bandage and try to restore it to its original position.
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