I Don't Like Where This Is Going - Plot & Excerpts
I was wrong, of course, to think I ever slept alone. Every night the people I unconsciously contrived visited me in dreams, and last night’s dreams were uniformly distressing. In one, I made several annoyingly shy toddlers weep by asking them hideously avuncular questions like, What is your favorite subject in school? and, What do you want to be when you grow up? My words were met with mute disdain, but I wanted them to like me so badly that I felt compelled to impart some palliative wisdom that they might groove on. Children, I said, be bright in your lavish youth because time darkens everything. And that’s when one sobbing boy bit his lip, shut his eyes, and told me I was stealing his childhood. I woke when I heard the bee wranglers setting up their ladders and estimating the gallons of honey they’d harvest from this job. I tried to remember which Renaissance artist it was who first proffered the artistic and philosophical advice I’d inflicted on the children in the dream. After I’d dressed, I e-mailed Elwood Wingo, the TV reporter, explaining who I was and why I wanted to speak with him.
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