There is another "I'm-imaginary-saving-the-world" type dream that I have.
This time it's about fire.
From a magical dead letter office with a black sky full of stars, at the magnetic center of the world.
Here I am, beside a magnificent oil drum, which is the mouthy chimney of this contained inferno.
I am the sole attendant of this world fire.
Surrounded by papers, which I will tell you all about because they are the most fun beyond the immolation at hand, I watch the flashing white-red burn that does not throw sparks.
It's purpose- great heat- is pulled away and pushed into all the blood and hearts of those it could save... Children first.
It is the fire that keeps others going in oil drums topside. Because I have the right kind of fuel, they don't need to gather the wrong kind upstairs.
It's just me. I can float if I want to. But usually I climb.
If I get hungry, the papers become food. Love letters taste especially sweet and deliciously nourishing.
There is the fire, a 6 foot circle around the fire, a folding chair, and stacks and piles and stacks and piles. Straight to the ceiling of no ceiling, To the wide high of starry black.
Fuel: letters, newspapers, books, loose ephemera. Some important, most not.
I am the fire-keeper and a speed reader with a spectacular rate of retention.
Sometimes what I read causes others topside to remember. They look into a fire near to them, or a fire inside of them, and find a new answer.
I never tire, tho' I do pause in the chair and watch. The fire, the stars, the fire again.
I work for years of no time giving all these fires a final purpose.
