The Dream Ends Somewhere

A knock on the door. This is a dream. I or whoever is playing the role here opens the door. Farrah Fawcett is standing there with a big angelic smile. I or whoever is not smiling because one or the other of us knows that Farrah Fawcett is dead. This must be her ghost. We both know that. The ghost knows it too. “I will take you to the twentieth century,” says the ghost. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I tell the ghost. I’m pretty sure it’s me doing the talking at this point. Whoever remains close by and silent. The ghost keeps smiling that angelic smile. Considerable time passes, miles and miles of it. Then whoever says: “I’ll go.”