Last night I had a dream. It was a dream deeply rooted in the American nightmare, usually one featuring zombies but always involving astonishing amounts of blood.
I had a dream that one of my best friends, who lives in a distant land, came to visit us. We were watching a World Cup soccer game. My friend was slicing cheese to place on a cracker. His hand slipped, and the knife went astray. My friend ended up cutting his own throat, slicing his head off over halfway through the neck. My friend's head was hanging by a thread, a thread of muscle and skin. Yet my friend could still scream.
My friend begged me to help, by reattaching his head to his body. I attempted to do so. I dialed for an ambulance. Then I took a needle and thread, sewing around the cut. But my friend's head, barely hanging on by a sinew, screamed in pain at the needle, and then detached from his neck. The room was showered by a death geyser of blood. I heard sirens in the distance. I knew that I would go to prison, an innocent man, for the accidental death of my friend.
I should call my friend, to warn him. This has to mean something.