copier room

A few snippets from last night’s 11 hour sleep:

  • I was watching a dated BBC documentary, maybe with my class, and at the end of it there was this voiceover that announced its being the 20th anniversary of the BBC doing something, and the voiceover was done in unison by a bunch of people so that the dissonant frequencies of their voices made it sound Daleklike to an extent. The end scene of the video, which became the scene of the dream, was a copier room — a room in a private house with a whole bunch of photocopiers. In some of these were people sitting on the scanning surfaces of the copiers, slumped over and comatose. Also there was a spritzy fountain of wax or maybe Insta-Cure, and I had to use it to make some pieces of Velcro adhesive to their substrates, but I laid the pieces fuzzy side up under the fountain, so the whole thing was screwed up. I also got the Insta-Cure on my hands and it bonded instantly, naturally.
  • I was walking on a traily, flat road through some woods and by some houses with my parents on a morning in what seemed to be a semitropical area, and the planets and bright stars were bright enough to be visible then despite the daytime sky. In maybe the same scene I went into a pleasant, blue-and-white, small skylit attic of some house and discovered a bunch of my own stuff, including stuffed animals and my box of left contact lenses (which I have misplaced IRL). Apparently I was familiar with this house because finding these things there didn’t seem at all wacky.

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