Dream of: 23 November 1999 "Abandoned Clock Tower"

The fellow standing in front of me had just handed me enough marijuana for one joint. I wasted no time: I quickly rolled the grass into a joint and held it in my hand. When the fellow looked questioningly at the finished product, I had to admit the joint was rather peculiar looking; it was only about two centimeters long, but very thick, almost two centimeters thick. The paper on the joint wasn't the normal white rolling paper, but mauve, with white spots. The paper appeared to made of plastic, an observation which concerned me, because I feared the plastic might be toxic.

Nevertheless, thinking the joint was already lit, I held it to my mouth and took a hit. But nothing came through; I still had to light the thing, which I immediately did. I then handed the joint to the other fellow so he could take a hit. He also seemed a bit concerned about the plastic wrapping, and commented upon my rolling technique. Nevertheless, he also took a hit and handed the joint back to me. I walked off alone with the joint.

Half-deserted streets of this huge city encompassed me. Wandering alone, with my joint in hand, down sidewalks shadowed by towering brick buildings, I wondered where I was. Chicago? Definitely not New York. Perhaps London. Wherever I was, I needed to be cautious. I couldn't afford to be arrested for possession of marijuana. The offense was minor, probably just a fine, but my being a lawyer could cause me problems. Of course, it was more common for people to smoke pot on the streets of big cities like this. But I kept a wary eye out for the police and shot furtive glances at everyone I saw. I was down to the butt now; I could just stick it in my mouth and swallow it if I had to.

I needed to be watchful for the cops anyway, since I vaguely recalled I was wanted. What had been my crime? Had I killed someone? It seemed I was wanted for murder, but I couldn't exactly remember. I just knew I needed to be careful and find a place to stay for the night where no one could find me. Homeless. How long had I been that way?

After I reached a building which seemed familiar to me, I climbed up the inner steps to the top to an abandoned clock tower. The muttering retreat could house me for the night. The inner workings of the huge clock were right in front of me – three, five meters high. Old dull black metal encased in old dull brown wood. But the clock was still working. Parts were moving. There at the bottom was a small hole (through which I could crawl) which would lead to the inside of the clock, where I could curl up and be safe for the night. I would have to time my entry. The hands of the clock needed to be pointed upward, so the hole wouldn't be blocked. Six or six-thirty would be a bad time to try to get inside. But if I timed it right, I had a home for the night.

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