In one dream I am a method actor taking part in the production of a film about the ancient [and epic] political rallies of the Alaskan Inuit. Over the course of the film’s production, I drift away from relevant characterization, and become a hitman. From atop the Alaskan Inuit Palace, I shoot at six men identified from a list of pictures and names written on the steeple.
Almost instantly [although his tone of voice suggests that at least six months have passed] a man appears atop the steeple with me, claiming that I killed his friends and family, and must be punished for my actions, regardless of their emotional un-associations.
“It was just a job” I say, but he pulls a weapon resembling the wishbone of a turkey, yet made up of a cascading array of either shards of glass or razorblades! Several minutes of struggle transpire, before he succeeds at slipping it into my neck some fifty times in the space of a moment. Stringy cords are all that remain, and it seems the razorshards were poisoned, as well.
The next dream continues to develop some of the themes established by its predecessor, as well as the presence of numerous props.
While running through the grid of a cropfield with my family, I take a peek into the next bisecting line over. A small and male-looking slinker in a full black tracksuit [hairline to toes] pursues us in a loping fashion. I take one for the team, and shove my family off into an alternate and hopefully-safe path.
The attacker pursues only me, now, but has somehow asexually split in two. These doppelhunters corner me in a cave beneath a waterfall, and remove their masks. They are Chanel Croker, and a woman who I’ve never met before, but who could easily go by the name of Amy or Laura.
Attaching strange needlepoints [vaguely resembling the weapon of the dream previous in both appearance and perceived functionality] to the end of batons resting at their side, they, very slowly and nonchalantly, prepare me for my ritual execution.
I grab Chanel’s stick from her hands, screw the needlepoint into position myself, and jab it into her [now perfectly naked] thigh. Pity and remorse wash over me quickly, slight-seizured waves of emotions gone all manifest. Lauramy disappears, and I crouch down on the ground next to Chanel’s body, crying – But safe again.