I am attending a party in an office building. The offices are all carpeted in that heavy-traffic office-issue carpet, with white walls, and fake-looking green plants. Every couple of doors is a break room, with a large round table and unconfortable wooden chairs.
I'm standing in the lobby of the building, but not for long. Sigourney Weaver has just walked up, to greet Gene Hackman at the door coming in. They start an animated discussion, which I am involved with, and we all walk towards the elevators.
Gene is wearing a tuxedo, complete with shiny shoes and a folded silk hanky in the breast pocket. His hair is gray, with occasional white, and is getting sparse on top. His moustache is trimmed, and he is not smiling, but has a twinkle in his eye.
Sigourney is wearing a white floor-length dress, and holding a glass of wine in her right hand. Her skin looks very white, and her hair looks very black. She and Gene are discussing the finer points of a certain play they were both in, and I am not particularly interested in what they're saying.
We are standing in one of the break rooms, mingling with a crowd, when I decide to go for a walk. I step out of the room onto a sidewalk, on a busy afternoon. Random people walk by, and brighly colored cars zoom around. I continue up the sidewalk for a ways and stop in front of a college campus. A brick stairway leads up to a wide library, also in red brick. White pillars provide a regal appearance, extending up from the platform to the underside of the third floor.
Two walkways stretch off on either side of this building. I realize that something is funky when I notice that I am looking down both walkways at the same time. The horizon is warped. The base of the building is bent upward in the distance, and the walls curve in on the sides. It is as if the entire library, and the buildings around it, are reflected in a chrome sphere.
I look down, and realize that on either side of the brick stairway is a ramp leading down, directly under the stairs. I walk to the side and, to my surprise, I see that the ramps end at another platform, directly beneath the first one. There is another library in front of the platform. White columns extend up two floors, and meet with the underside of the first platform. Two identical walkways proceed off on either side, and again, I can see both simultaneously, because this library is in warped space too -- the warped space of the bottom half of the globe.
Thinking that this is a very strange way to build a college, I continue walking, and end up back at the office. As soon as I arrive at the doors I find myself many floors up, in one of the party rooms.
I am standing next to a white wall. If I stand on my toes, I can see over the edge of the wall. The side of the building across the street is visible. I try to understand how this wall can be in the middle of the office building and still have no roof above it -- and fail. I turn around and lean back on the wall, looking into the other room.
Minnie Driver is there, sitting on a restaurant-style bench and leaning on an empty table with one elbow. She's wearing a complex white dress with a petticoat, amd is holding the remains of a glass of wine, and looks bored. She smiles at me and waves, hoping I will come over and start a conversation.
Further along the bench sits Gene Hackman, with his hands folded on his lap. He too looks bored, and is staring into space. On the other side of the room, Sigourney Weaver is standing at a window, still holding her wine. She appears to be deep in thought.
Suddenly I realize that this situation is so ridiculous, it must be a dream. But how can I be sure? What if it's not? Typical for my dreams, I can't remember a damn thing about my previous experiences in the outside world. Am I sleeping at someone's house? Am I still in school? Am I married, or in Japan, or on a spaceship, or undergoing surgery? I can't conjure a single detail, and because of this, I can't assume that I am actually asleep and dreaming. Perhaps this is real life.
When I experience a lucid dream, I usually start running around inside it causing mischief. Beating people up, destroying things, or having sex with unlikely partners. "If this is a dream," I think to myslelf, "I'd probably start having sex with one of those women." But what if it's no dream, and my forward behaviour results in some embarassing faux pas? I'd hate to offend any of these famous people.
In the end I realize that my only choice is to hope that one of the other people in my dream realizes that I'm dreaming, and propositions me. Dream logic is totally ridiculous, and suspiciously effective.
"But none of these people would have the guts or desire to directly seduce me, would they?" "Actually, I'm not sure about that..."
My train of thought is derailed when Sigourney Weaver strolls up to me, her expression an inscrutable, relaxed leer. I turn to face her as she walks between me and the wall and leans back against it, breathing in at the same time so her cleavage pushes up at me from her dress. "Oh, she's gooood." I think.
Intrigued by her crafty smile, I tilt my head sideways to kiss it. She opens her mouth, and our tongues touch even before our lips do. She puts one hand on the side of my head, and I put one arm up on top of the wall to steady myself as I lean in. "If this isn't a dream," I think, "there's going to be big trouble. She's married and has two kids..."
Luckily, I wake up.