The last dream… He called it the Vatican, but it wasn’t; it was more of just a large skyscraper; he read my eyes and let me know they were all over the place. Vaticans? Yes, perhaps hundreds. I stood shocked, it didn’t feel magical anyhow; either did Catholicism. I looked over and edge and felt a pain in my stomach. Didn’t even see the ground, just the hundreds of floors vaulting down the building across. I began to slip; dreams make you more awkward than in life, or some brilliant track star, unpredictable. The roof might have had twenty feet each way, then… fall. It was paved in a slick marble, no grout to grab into, just slick. No edges, no rails, just a pitch into free fall. I don’t want to fall, but every motion or wiggle draws me closer to the edge. I think about jumping, my body pangs, I can premeditate the damage to my nerves. The flight, the fright. Can you please help me, I ask. Whomever rushed to my elbow and pulled me from nearing the edge. I’ve got to stop picking on the pope so much, maybe the repetition of his name is driving him into my mind.
The Vatican looked like some gleaming Chase Manhattan building, I’m just noticing that. Is my brain being equally blasphemous in my sleep; that’s funny. Cold, clean, religious named spires, threatening to spit me off into oblivion… It ends with my sticky eyes opening, I need more sleep, I hate heights…
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