Yesterday’s corrective dream jolts me into full awareness: its negativity smells, suggests contamination from Beast, my negative animus.

I’m living in a Senior Citizen complex and scheduled to be put to death following this afternoon’s movie in the theater. In the semi darkness, I find my accustomed seat; next to it is the bucket of water used for such purposes. I’d hoped they’d forgotten, but to my dismay, they haven’t.

I shudder. The faceless they have ordered my death, interestingly enough within the facility’s movie theater where the dumbed-down sit passively, self-absorbed, dull-witted: all aspects of my unconscious. I flop upon my plush seat and await my fate. The bucket of water no longer menaces me—Just part of the routine killings.

The setting of the Senior Citizen complex also unnerves me. I know. Four times I have been in such places for rehab. Their homey allurements still chafe, subtle routines oppress spirit, institutional cooking blocks bowels, staff shortages irk bedpan-sitters, rules and regulations stifle initiative—conform or else is the mandate. In sense it was like being put to death. But not so, today.

And the bucket of water: It morphs into a blue one with a rope handle, such as a child would use to mold sandcastles by the ocean. A shift occurs in my psyche. Despite my terminal illness, life still abounds. Rather than sit listlessly in the movie theater, I empty the bucket, tuck it under my arm, and search for the beach, close by. It’s playtime in the sun.

And the dream’s terror lifts.