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Last night I watched this guy get his head cut off.
He was an innocent small town resident who somehow discovered a local cult.
Unfortunately, the (very secret) cult was the rest of the small town.
I remember wondering in my sleeping consciousness whether I would see any gore.
And the censors in my dream factory did a nice job, in the end. The poor guy did get his head cut off, but I didn't see it. I saw the suggestion of it: the raising of the sword, the swift stroke.
I woke immediately after that point in a room I hardly recognize.
I'm sleeping on my frameless futon these days, waiting for this weekend when we'll load boxes and furniture into a trailer.
Somewhere in that process, a home will emerge from the empty and cold place where I'm laying my head.
At least the potential is there.
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