Sam Lowry (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
notevendreams) wrote2009-09-29 08:42 am
notevendreams) wrote2009-09-29 08:42 am
Entry tags:
Dream Series 1
He is in an office building. A corridor in an office building. Tan carpet, grey walls, totally innocuous. He begins to walk.
Why this sense of creeping dread?
There are no doors. No, that's not what's making him nervous. He knows where he's going. He is holding a stack of papers. He is heading to that one door at the end of the corridor. The one with the antiquated brass handle.
There are framed pictures on the walls that almost seem to be appearing as he passes. Some are a fuzzy indeterminate grey. There are a few that are clearer: A palm tree. A kneeling angel. A penguin. A city landscape, blocky structures jutting out of the ground toward a sky he can't see. The image is shifting as though the camera is moving back and forth, closer and away....
For a moment, he falls into the photograph and is shifting along with it...
He is back in the corridor. He has reached the door. The brass handle feels cool to the touch. The door leads to an office with a single desk. The desk seems too small for the size of the room. One wall of the office is a window -- the entire wall. The room is filled with noise, the howling of an endless wind even though he feels none. Outside is a desert, flat and expansive and blank -- or perhaps there is one lone palm tree far off in the distance...
No matter. He has work to do. He walks over to the desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He sits down, begins to put the papers in order. Pink and blue receipts. Carbon copy sheets. On one of them his eye catches, under the long and complicated ID number, the name of the form.
Requisition for Inter-dimensional Transfer
"Sam?"
The voice echoes in from somewhere very far away, but Sam looks up as though he just heard a gunshot, and awakens with just the same abruptness.
Why this sense of creeping dread?
There are no doors. No, that's not what's making him nervous. He knows where he's going. He is holding a stack of papers. He is heading to that one door at the end of the corridor. The one with the antiquated brass handle.
There are framed pictures on the walls that almost seem to be appearing as he passes. Some are a fuzzy indeterminate grey. There are a few that are clearer: A palm tree. A kneeling angel. A penguin. A city landscape, blocky structures jutting out of the ground toward a sky he can't see. The image is shifting as though the camera is moving back and forth, closer and away....
For a moment, he falls into the photograph and is shifting along with it...
He is back in the corridor. He has reached the door. The brass handle feels cool to the touch. The door leads to an office with a single desk. The desk seems too small for the size of the room. One wall of the office is a window -- the entire wall. The room is filled with noise, the howling of an endless wind even though he feels none. Outside is a desert, flat and expansive and blank -- or perhaps there is one lone palm tree far off in the distance...
No matter. He has work to do. He walks over to the desk, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He sits down, begins to put the papers in order. Pink and blue receipts. Carbon copy sheets. On one of them his eye catches, under the long and complicated ID number, the name of the form.
Requisition for Inter-dimensional Transfer
"Sam?"
The voice echoes in from somewhere very far away, but Sam looks up as though he just heard a gunshot, and awakens with just the same abruptness.