I had a
mini-dream last night. It was quick, tidy and slightly bizarre.
*start of
dream*
One of my
co-workers tells us that he has a secret. It is written on a small piece of
paper that he always keeps with him. Somehow we get the piece of paper away
from him and we all huddle around to read it. It’s a phone number. There wasn’t
much discussion; we set the nearest phone to speakerphone and dial.
The phone
rings once and then a woman answers. “James Joyce’s office,” she clearly
states. Looks of confusion are quickly exchanged. Somehow we have called a
number for a dead writer.
Not knowing
what else to do, I tell the lady that we had misdialed and we were trying to
reach Stephen King. (I just blurted it out, believing that I needed to give
this woman a cover story.) She was very understanding and then hung up the
phone.
Next,
another co-worker says that this secret wasn’t nearly as much fun as she had
imagined and announces that she’s going to head upstairs to see if she can
still catch the stage play. Apparently there’s some sort of production
scheduled.
*end of
dream*
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