I dreamed I was alternately working with Stephen Fry, or that I was
Stephen Fry himself, and that we/I could tell when people were about to
die.
Young, old, sick, healthy, didn't matter. Imminent death would manifest
as a thick, opaque, black cloud of smoke, billowing around the person's
neck, enveloping their head, rattling in their lungs, until, with a
gasp, they took it all in... and died.
Sometimes, though, it would change it's mind, leap from one person to
another. It claimed an old woman in her opulent rooms in a holiday
resort abroad, then settled on her grandson. But before it took him, it
leapt away to a little boy that passed him on a skateboard.
We watched it hover over a small, golden haired girl playing an angel in
a Winter Olympics opening ceremony, until she fell down back stage and
passed. I felt it coalesce around my own head and throat, felt the
gritty soot in my lungs, but then it left to take an old man.
We/I tried to solve the mystery of what it was, determine if it was
death itself or a malignant and capricious spirit, studied it, chased
it, tried to predict it, but we could never stop it.
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