When you wake up and recall a dream, you keep piecing it together, dissecting it, striving until you're satisfied with what you think your subconscious was trying to tell you. If you don't, maybe you'll forget it. Or, you'll be stuck with half of a dream that makes no sense, with no rhythm or rhyme, except for the sheet of steel it's left hanging over your heart, pulling it down to the pit of your stomach.

At least, that's what I'm feeling.

In my dream, I'm in a huge building after a play. I'm on a high floor, and there's a large amount of free space. The floor is carpeted with a rough, pale brown carpet. Below it lays a layer of concrete. On 2 1/2 sides, there are cream-colored walls. The other 1 1/2 is a thin layer of glass, looking out at a dun city skyline and a hopelessly gray sky. I've figured that this is the Hynes Convention Center; Boston.

There are many people around me; we're all crowded. I know not where my family is, only where they're supposed to be. There's a huge, roaring fire somewhere in the building. We all want to get out of the building- jumping isn't an option, we're up too high, but we can't leave through stairs because one by one the police are closing all the exits and putting signs saying "Danger!- Fire" on the doors. The crowd is in a panic; inevitably we're all going to die. But I don't care, I'm just trying to find you. I want to know you're safe. I can't go looking for you now, so instead I race to the giant, floor-to-ceiling windows and look at the massive population of boston, awaiting the destruction of the building as the fire creeps higher. They're panicking, too.

I scan the crowd. Some how, I don't know how, (In real life, we're up too high for this to happen, but who cares) but your eyes meet mine. You gasp; I guess you've been looking for me, hoping I made it out side. I glance down sadly, give you a small smile, and gently wave good bye. You're horrified. I watch as a soundless "No!" escapes your lips. I keep waving.

If you had wanted to save me, you would've done it sooner. Now, it's just too late. I'll burn past recognition along with these thousand strangers, to the point where our ashes will litter the floor in gray, dusty heaps. And you can watch me burn. All because you were little too late.

("tell me, love, am i prettier in death?")