Management without Borders: Post-life delayered administrative structures

I am not really me in this dream. I live in a realm where it is totally accepted that after death there is an afterlife; another plane of existence. Only instead of angels or demons, it's just a Lych-esque fuck-with-your-head fest, though moderately better or worse for people depending upon how much they have their shit together in this realm, or more like how they look at things. Also unlike traditional notions of the afterlife, it is only temporary. One lives another life there, and then dies for real.

Anyways, Me that's not really me must protect some woman through her entire life, from childhood to old age. It is a dream that feels like it is a really long time. She never knows who I am, but the second realm is constantly trying to take her. She has multiple grisly accidents. I come across her after many of these accidents. The only one I can remember occurs when she is an old lady and falls face first into the edge of a bathtub. The physics are not really accurate. It's more like her head has been cracked on a street curb. But the accidents are always like that. She shouldn't survive, I'm always a little too late, but there's always another one coming on the horizon. At the very end I'm rushing to the hotel room where I am too late to stop the bloody bathroom fall from happening, and I am somehow transported to this second realm. There are a couple of young and cheerful looking people who are management there. Turns out they have been wanting her because they feel she has a great deal of potential as a re-educator in the second realm. Scary, but weirdly not scary. Apparently there is some kind of structure there. This is a really comforting revelation in the dream. And the woman I protect will have a better life there than she has now. Regardless, the dream ends with me hoping she dies in her sleep. She's been through enough.

encomium \en-KOH-mee-uhm\, noun; plural encomiums or encomia \-mee-uh\:

An often formal expression of warm or high praise.

Encomium derives, via Latin, from Greek enkomion, from en-, "in" + komos, "revel."

An often formal expression of warm or high praise.

Weekends always dissolve in the same pulsing miasma of encomia and red wine from the periphery.

quidnunc \KWID-nuhngk\, noun:

...One who is curious to know everything that passes; one who knows or pretends to know all that is going on; a gossip; a busybody.

Quidnunc comes from Latin quid nunc?, "what now?"

Her quidnunc tendencies were barely slated by the drunk and confessional woman; though the woman was certainly the best of her kind, a kind of perfect binary for voyeurs. Often pairs like this become quite close friends, until they approach that singularity of honest expression and empathy, where identities necessarily break down.

sough \SAU; SUHF\, intransitive verb:

1. To make a soft, low sighing or rustling sound, as the wind.
2. A soft, low rustling or sighing sound.
...Sough comes from Middle English swoughen, from Old English swogan.

Things I wish I hated:

The sough of breath and blood.

construction workers and women in high heels

A large yellow machine with a bucket on crane, resting against the ground. I can't remember what they're called.

Only, for a minute, I thought it was a woman's leg with a high heeled shoe.

daedal \DEE-duhl\, adjective:

1. Complex or ingenious in form or function; intricate.
2. Skillful; artistic; ingenious.
3. Rich; adorned with many things

...Daedal comes from Latin daedalus, "cunningly wrought," from Greek daidalos, "skillful, cunningly created."

The key is not to let her speak; her daedal explanations can warp reality around them. Trust me, once she begins there will be more that lies - she will assault your ability to perceive.

facebook pseudonym

It was all about my best friend's family from when I was a teenager, but they weren't really like themselves. I slept over because her sister was upset about another miscarriage. Though she was a very young woman in the dream, the miscarriages were the fading out of some great, lifelong hope.

There was some kind of fight. I screamed and railed and cried at my best friend and her mother in the dream.

At one point I suggested folic acid from dark greens for the barren sister, and claimed that this is what I was doing to protect my childbearing ability.

We all made friends again. It was the morning. My friend's Facebook newsfeed showed a post from me that I couldn't remember writing. It was a long poem about the miscarriages directed towards the sister. It was encouraging various paths of action for the sister to take to become pregnant again.

That's when my friend told me that her mother liked to write poetry using my name as a pseudonymn. The poem was embarrassingly bad, but probably pretty close to the poetry I would actually write. There was a line about a large vagina turned upwards to accept the rain.