bkyn_eurotrash writes: So, here's a bizarre dream I had:I was in an old flophouse, or small hotel or roominghouse of some kind. I knew that I was in Brooklyn Heights in the era of Truman Capote and Norman Mailer etc. etc.I arrived in the middle of a dark and stormy night. They had an arrangement where writers and artists could rent a room out for blocks of a few hours as a kind of "studio space." I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to do with it, but it sounded like a great idea. My own little retreat. I paid $16 or something and got the space for a 2 or 3 hours.
But there was a psychopathic man upstairs on a mattress on the floor, and he forced me at knifepoint to compose flowery prose out loud for him. As I spoke I understood that my distressed ramblings were, in fact, the works of William Shakespeare, being composed as I said them. Once he demanded too much of me and I began to back away, so he dug the knife into my side, making a shallow cut near my right kidney or so, and I had to beg him not to plunge the knife in and disembowel me, please sir, thanks.
Brooklyn Heights Dream or Nighmare?
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