It's showtime in dreamland.

This morning at 08:00 am
I overslept comfortably for half an hour.
The shallow sleep was interleaved
with a strong presence of a chimeric
Johnny Cash.

After this thirty minutes, at 08:30 am precisely,
I decided to go for another round of
seven-minutes naps, timed by the
alarm clock's snooze function.

I noticed after the first of these sets
that Johnny Cash had turned into
Slayer (the music act, not the lethal tool;
must have been 08:37 am).

So I decreed that the forthcoming seven-minutes
sets would be devoted, yes: dedicated,
to one of Slayer's members each:
I deliberately assigned the one that had just
passed to Tom Araya, the bassist and singer.
I am not bearing a very strong internal
representation of him anyway.

The upcoming seven minutes were entirely consumed
with a dream-like presence of Kerry King,
then Jeff Hannemann, and, finally, the great
Dave Lombardo. It was after Lombardo's
seven-minutes nap

[which, by the way, was interwoven with
a Joaquin Phoenix rendition of Johnny Cash,
and Rick Rubin dropping by occasionally, most
likely just shutteling between a heavenly control
room where he might have been overseeing final
mixdowns with Cash for American Recordings V,
and a much more earthly studio booth where a new phalanx
of King's and Hannemann's guitar chainsaws were to be
slashed into harddrive memory]

that I painfully realised that Slayer never had a fifth
member: a fifth member I had rock-solidly envisioned
and incorporated in my plans for five sets of comforting
seven-minutes nap.

Well, you can't make up things or just
bend the laws of reality! So I simply turned round,
without dedicating the last seven minutes to anybody
in particular. I waited what my brain would come
up with, lingered rather dreamlessly inbetween worlds,
and finally crawled out of bed, at 09:07 am.