I don't dream much. So when I do it feels significant, whether it is or not. Asleep on the couch, surrounded by presents and chocolat liquor and gladness, slightly drugged by pain and perkocete, i had a dream that i was in hell. it was a butcher shop a la Miro's 'Carnival of Harlequin,' with screaming cow heads on the floor prophesying...a workshop of torture and chaos. in the groggy horror upon waking up, egg nog and 24/7 jolly carols on the radio, snoop dogg at the lakers-celtics game, i had a vision of our home, a la hiroshema, a la Job...todd, dead. dad, missing right arm crying over john's missing left leg. mom also missing limbs. the pot roast, not quite done. "Quelle Catastrophe!" the comfort and safety of candles and frosty christmas wreaths...illusion! warsaw, nagasake, quernica...horror a moment from the front door, waiting to be answered, three doors down. i have not been so shaken by a dream in a long time. no one is safe from the revolving one way doors of Hell, butcher shop of eternal torture. O Lady, pray for us!