Wednesday, November 26, 2003


Last night I was wandering down Queen Street feeling somewhat paranoid. I'm not sure if it was the medication, or possibly the eerie atmosphere - the ice crystals in the frigid air, the skyscrapers shrouded in fog, the heavily bundled human-like figures - but I was feeling paranoid. Like I was going to be set up. Like I was going to pass the yawning mouth of an alley, and some mysterious shadow was going to push a rifle and some polaroids into my arms while slipping a copy of The Catcher in the Rye into my coat pocket.

I was reminded of a dream at this time, a dream that caused me great concern while I slept, but was forgotten upon waking. I was being chased down a darkened alley, (which in and of itself is not unusual), but this time I got caught. A powerful man grabbed at me about the shoulders and, struggling, I was turned around to face him. I don't remember the details of his person, but he thrust a large roll of paper into my hands.

"I think this might be yours," he said, and turned on his heel before walking away.

Hungrily unrolling the scroll, I found it to be a blueprint for my life. Somehow I wasn't surprised, and thought to myself, I suppose all things created must have plans.

The plans were for what appeared to be a large manor house, and I soon realised that it was a house designed without doors - only windows. Displeased, I looked to the corner of the sheet and found the architect's stamp there. I immediately set out to phone him, using the contact information provided.

After listening to my complaint, the architect replied, "Yes, well, it's all the rage in design these days - no way in, no way out. Perfection."

After this, the call was disconnected. Slamming down the receiver, I only succeeded in waking myself up.

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