It might have been the corrugated Oculus Rift, or it might have been the Amazon boxes arriving daily.
It might have been the cardboard containers we’ve been collecting for a shoot, or Trump openly mocking a reporter’s physical disability, or the photo of Bernie Sanders with an arm draped over Killer Mike’s shoulder. A dangerous looking man, that Killer Mike, twice the size of Sanders, but sweet.
Pieces and parts of all these things in last night’s dream …
I’m at a Trump rally.
Like everyone else, I’m standing inside a man-sized box, completely inside it, a box as big as a small telephone booth. Mine is one of hundreds or thousands, a sea of boxes, all uniform, all made of brown corrugated cardboard, all equipped with controls that we twiddle to no effect. Dummy controls. Distractions.
But the boxes do allow us to communicate among ourselves somehow, and with Trump, and they allow Trump to speak to us.
Then I’m outside the box. The rally is over and I’m walking with Trump toward the exit. He’s leaving and I’m talking. I’m currying favor. My hand is on his shoulder.
I wake up.