Dream II

I am riding in a car on some nameless street, no details stand out. A man is beside me, driving. I feel nothing, no fear, no anger, as he reaches across the center console with his right hand wrapped around a large, jagged knife. I grab his wrist and hold his arm effortlessly still. The knife is silver, with a black handle. It has steel rivets through the handle, and a metal cap at its base. I look across at him, and notice that he has no face, just a sheet of skin where it should be. I find this faintly alarming. Still holding the knife away from my chest, I turn and look out the window. There is nothing anywhere, a blank world, except for crowds of faceless men walking unbroken gray ribbons of sidewalk. The sunshade is down, and I see myself in the embedded mirror, unbroken skin from forehead to chin. The knife is buried in my chest. The blood runs across the steel rivets, almost invisible on the black handle, until it twists its way through my fingers and drips down onto my legs.