This dream has actually spanned the course of several dreams. The world is ending again. Plans and schemes are in full motion. Warheads are being prepped for launch. Diplomats and envoys smiling obsequiously over it all. We’re fighting a house to house battle to save as many people as we can, from the oppressive representatives of what P.K. Dick called “The Black Iron Prison.” But there is little that can be done; the plans are too old, too far-gone, and we are just a small group of nobodies. I remember massive Mead-esque triangular buildings, secret meetings at the U.N. — but these were all like cutscenes; never experienced first hand. Instead we deal with individual thugs and cops on a neighborhood level, almost all of whom wear white gas masks. (Hmm, wonder where I got that from.) Anyway the general feeling is that we were about to lose, that nothing could be done. Our people are being lost — killed, captured, or converted to the oppressive worldview that spawned the trouble in the first place. I don’t even have a beginning or an end for this dream. Only an impression, a very troubling one, remains.