A simple straight black line, like an em dash, on my face. In the dream I was trying to find the correct position and orientation for this line but I woke up before the process was complete. Upon awakening I knew what I had to do.

I've been using a Sharpie and a ruler to draw a black line a few centimetres long on my face. Trying it in different places. One black line.

With two lines I could have a design or have symmetry. But symmetry cancels itself out, and I don't want a design. The opposite of design is an accident. And everywhere I go, I always try to make things look like an accident.

So the next time you see me I might have a black line drawn on my face. I'll have to try different positions and angles for the black line before I finally get it inked in. It might take several attempts to get the placement perfect.

It might take months.

A mosquito bit me on the back of the neck. I fell paralysed onto my knees and tumbled into the pit.

A mosquito bit me on the thigh and sucked my leg to a shrivelled stump. A whirlwind of black dust rose up in the forest. A bear jumped on top of me and fought me to the ground.

A mosquito bit me on the cheek and the whole left side of my face caved in. A napalm fire roared along the treeline. Blind civilians ran from their homes and fell straight into the foetid pit.

I've been having a recurring dream about a bat with blood in its mouth.

The burn unit filled up with poison gas. I alone was immune to the toxic effects. I ran up the hospital corridor. No one in the hospital knew I was alive. I erased my life from the computer data banks and gave my molecules over to the system.

Raised dots on a card I slid into a slot. The doors opened. A small television swung out over the bed.

I rolled a bed through the empty wing of the hospital. An empty life. Wave to me from the window. Ward 4-D.

A pair of pliers sits on the floor.

Something is wrong with my eyes. Holy fuck there's something wrong.

I also dreamed there was blood gushing down the right side of my face like a waterfall. That never happened. I'm pretty sure.

Three men have made a decision. They are starting to work together, serious and determined.

A woman is screaming at them. "What are you doing."

One of the men says, "We're going to die. So we might as well do it with as much style as possible."

I was checking out of the hotel and I wondered if I would be able to drive back to Canada by sundown. I dragged myself along the sidewalk through the dirty snow to where I'd parked my car, a good eight or ten blocks away. I got in behind the wheel and started up the car and drove across the snowpacked parking lot towards the exit.

Just as I was about to pull out onto the street, there was a huge thump and the car came to a halt. Through the windshield I could see where one of my front wheels had come right off the car and was rolling away towards the busy street.

I shut off the engine and got out. I chased after the wheel, and when I caught up with it, I picked it right up off the ground in time to feel the tire deflating in my arms. There was a large gouge in the tire that must've happened when the wheel came off the axle.

I was holding the wheel of my car in my arms in the middle of downtown Baltimore. Panic rose inside me and I fought it down. I had to get back to Canada, but now it looked like I would be at the mercy of whatever auto mechanic I could find in this hostile foreign city.

I carried the whole wheel right across the street to a garage called "Baltimore Tire And Auto." I brought the wheel inside and laid it down on the counter. The woman behind the counter looked down at the wheel and started talking really fast. She said they could fix my flat but it would be a little while before they could get around to it.

I tried to explain that my problem was a little more severe than a flat tire, but she was talking so fast I couldn't really get a word in.

Just then one of the mechanics came around the corner and fired a laser pointer right at me. I winced and threw my arm up to cover my eyes. If he managed to shine that thing in my eyes, the results would be catastrophic for everyone. And yet he obviously knew exactly what he was doing.

Shouting and swearing, I tried to go after the evil mechanic. I had to stop him... although if I didn't, it would scarcely matter. Because everyone would be dead.

But the mechanic slipped away and dodged behind a car. For some reason I was moving way too slowly to catch him.

Looking down, I saw that my entire pantleg was soaked with blood. Blood was trickling onto the floor. The blood created a crimson pool that was spreading out all around my feet.

I could hardly feel my leg. I could hardly walk.

I happened to walk past where my car was parked. A cop was standing there. It looked like she was getting ready to write out a ticket.

I went right up to her and said, "Hey, what's going on?"

The cop pointed at my car. "I'm writing you a ticket. You're blocking the driveway," she said. "You're lucky I don't have it towed."

I bent over sideways and checked out the back bumper of my car. My bumper was sticking out maybe a half-inch past where the curb sloped down. The driveway in question was very wide. My car certainly wasn't blocking anything.

I stood up and stared straight at the cop until she looked up from her notepad. Then I slowly opened my mouth.

A bunch of spiders came rushing out of my mouth. Lots of spiders. Dozens and dozens of spiders.

Black ones, brown ones, big ones, little ones, with furry little bodies and wriggly legs. Hundreds of spiders. They poured out of my mouth and fell down onto the ground, landing in a big squirmy pool at my feet before scurrying off in all directions across the sidewalk.

A few of the spiders ran straight for the cop and climbed up onto her shoes. She exclaimed in disgust and tried to shake them off her feet and brush them off with her notepad. She backed away into the street and started freaking out a little bit.

My friends and I thought all of this was really funny. The cop, not so much.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.

I tried to turn to climb out of the ditch but found I couldn't move. I looked down and branches were growing up through my shoes and all around my feet. The branches rose and and wound around my legs, immobilizing me.

At waist-height some of the branches grew twigs that sprouted buds. Then the buds opened out into large leaves, green and glossy.

On every leaf there was a caterpillar. Each caterpillar was acting out a different domestic scene.

One of the caterpillars was doing some ironing. Another was making toast. Yet another appeared to be relaxing on a little caterpillar couch, watching a miniature TV.

Twice recently I've had a nightmare where I'm driving the wrong way down a highway into oncoming traffic. I swerve and dodge around big trucks and somehow manage to avoid hitting anything until I can pull my car over.

Once I've stopped the vehicle my first impulse is to sit there for a minute, catch my breath and let the adrenalin rush simmer down a bit. But I don't do this. Instead I quickly turn the car around and merge right back into the stream of traffic.

I drive back the way I came, past the chaos I've just caused, one more car among cars. No one knows about the role I played in all this highway disruption.

Later on in the dream, I might overhear a conversation from an angry trucker whose load slid off his truck. Or I might learn about a man who damaged his car when he swerved onto the shoulder of the highway and hit a guardrail.

I say nothing.

I don't believe in "karma" necessarily but this week I've been feeling like I'm on the wrong end of something.

The sniper agreed with our assessment that the centre tower would provide the most advantageous position. The target could appear at any time at any one of the towers, such that it would be salutary to behave as though one believed in teleportation.

The focus of the sniper. So intent was he on the task ahead of him, he failed to notice that the photograph of the target we circulated after the meeting was a photograph of him.

I took a deep breath and wondered what else might have changed in the past two months. Many questions were bouncing around my head as I cut across the parking lot to the bus stop.

Had I pretended to be sick in order to get into the hospital?

Or had I pretended to be well in order to get out?

A truck? Why is there a truck in my driveway? No... not my driveway. Where am I? ...OK. I know where I am.

I tried to chase down the dream I'd been having but it was receding fast. Something was... moving... No, it's gone. I can't remember it.

One sentence remained stuck in my head, balanced on the knife-edge of consciousness, as if it were the last sentence spoken in a conversation just as I was awakened:

"I need you to find the machine that brings women back from the dead."

I realized that every window in the hotel had a thick enough cloud of insects gathering outside it to darken the mid-afternoon sun. The meeting had been temporarily adjourned as everyone stared at the bugs, reluctant to get too close to the windows.

Some of the mosquitoes had landed and were dragging their diamond-hard proboscises down the outside of the boardroom window, scoring tiny white lines in the pane of glass.

In the back of the crowd, without anyone noticing, I had pulled up the sleeve of my shirt. There were spiders attached to the skin of my arm. Three large spiders, black and furry, were stuck like leeches to my left forearm.

Last night I crashed on Nelson's couch in beautiful Vermont. I dreamed about a twenty-first century version of a photo booth.

The way it worked was, you would sit down in the booth, and this robot dome would come down over your head. A bunch of sharp buzzing clippers would start up in the dome and give you an automatic mechanical terrible haircut. Then the dome would retract and a mirror would appear in front of you. A video camera would record your reaction as you were shown your new hairstyle for the first time.

The resulting video would then be uploaded to a special webpage on YouTube.