It’s probably a metaphor for something.
Last night I had a dream that I played a mostly-complete very-playable version of FEZ II.
Since it’s highly unlikely that FEZ II will ever be a real thing, and because I enjoyed this vision of it so much, I think I’ll describe it here.
InsufficientOxygenException
Dream log
I had a dream in which I was sitting on a train and talking to an ostensible coworker (nobody I know in real life) about programming languages and some of the interesting stuff going on in performance evaluation, when suddenly she asked me, “Dude, are you okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Then why are you turning bat-cave black?”
I suddenly realized that I was turning blue with hypoxia, and promptly woke up to find myself not breathing.
After a few seconds of hyperventilation, my first thought was: “Uncaught exception propagated up the stack.”
(I’m fine, but a bit concerned as I have no idea what happened. Also, now I have a headache. Chris did once comment about how I’d stop breathing in my sleep but didn’t snore, so this has been going on for a long time in any case — probably the only reason I noticed this time was that the context was interesting enough to, er, trip my monitoring. I don’t think it was sleep apnea, as I was sleeping on my side and it didn’t feel like an obstruction, and technically the fact I woke up makes it by definition not sleep apnea.)
I was looking at the wall of terrariums filled with lizards, iguanas, and other such reptiles. They all seemed tired and depressed, so I flipped the switch that turned on all of their blacklights, causing most of them to scintillate with fluorescent glows surrounded by a purplish light embrace. But the chameleon on the upper rung was still in darkness; one of his two small blacklights had gone out. Moments later, he scurried over to feel the love of the working lamp.
“Well, I guess we need to get that replaced,” Chris said.
He made a phone call and asked about going to the pet store for supplies. A few uncomfortable minutes passed. A uniformed police officer appeared at the door.
“You called for an escort?” he said.
As the three of us walked to the pet store down the street, Chris got on his cellphone and called ahead, asking about a particular blacklight by part number. “Also, one of my lizards had little bugs crawling all over him,” he said. “Any suggestions for what I should get? … No, little tiny ones, like…”
“Like ticks on a rabbit?” I offered.
“Like ticks on a rabbit,” he repeated.
The person on the other end made a few suggestions, Chris occasionally interjecting with an “Mm-hmm” or “I see.”
“Okay, then,” Chris said. “I’m on my way with my wife,” he chuckled, looking at me, and hanging up.
I grumbled. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”
He teased my hair. “What should I call you, then?”
“I don’t know… partner? Companion? I still don’t know what we are.”
A rejected short story written for the second volume of Machine of Death, an anthology based on the idea that there is a machine that can predict, without fail, what someone will die of.
All thank the Machines, prophets of the Path.
The death machines saw it coming. They didn’t tell us about the Path directly, of course, but when dozens, then hundreds, then millions started to come up as ASTEROID IMPACT, people began to take notice. We knew our time on Earth was up.
So humanity took to the stars, selecting only those who were dying of non-apocalyptic causes to enter into the generational slowships. Lots were drawn, and humans were mixed based on their conditions, so that every ship could be guaranteed to have as few critical mishaps as possible. Suddenly, it made sense why so many were dying in FUSION EXPLOSION and RAPID DECOMPRESSION. But those were the lucky ones; the ones who were left to fend for themselves during IMPACT WINTER, MASS EXTINCTION, or TIDAL WAVE had simply to resign themselves to their fate.
A rejected short story written for the second volume of Machine of Death, an anthology based on the idea that there is a machine that can predict, without fail, what someone will die of.
10:48: Check the paper
All those bastards out there, they don’t know what they’re doing. Look at this, man runs across street, causes accident which kills three pedestrians. Said he didn’t care, his death card said “spiders” and so why the hell should he care about crossing the street safely? I hope he chokes on his own bile. Selfish.
Comics are stupid, as always. Ziggy is going to die alone and unloved. Serves him right. What kind of asshole doesn’t wear pants, I want to know. Beetle and Sarge are a couple of lovers. Good for them. The number 93 showed up a dozen times. What does it mean?
White as peace,
White as the sky,
Whte as a cloud,
Rolling by.
White is beautiful,
And endearing,
It makes me wonder
What I’m hearing
White is peaceful,
Not intenste,
It makes color
my favorite sense
Written ca. 1987 (age 9)
Late at night, one of my cd towers fell over, spilling its contents over my living room floor. I started to gather them up but then I decided I’d rather go to bed.
This special guest haiku written by RedFyre
RedFyre haiku!
You have a Carlin one there
Make me one right now.
Jar breeze is smelly
Springtime golem rising up
One Over Zero
Mister Plow, my name
My name again, Mister Plow
Call KL5-PLOW