Two nights ago, I dreamt that I was living in what appeared to be Stalin-era Russia, judging by the level of fear in the air. I was an "unwanted entity" from New York, and it wasn't my poor Russian that would give me away--it was my black plastic fork (anachronism? parachronism?), which had caught the attention of a passerby.

There was someone who could help me. I didn't know his name, and I didn't know why; he appeared out of nowhere. He was dressed in army fatigues and sat in a small office negotiating my travel with a low-level official. At some relevant moment, I was supposed to present a stack of falsified papers, and I stood shaking in the doorway, waiting for that moment.

The next scene is a blur. A large man ran by in the hallway behind me; there was shouting, and I understood, in the chaos, that he had found a way out. I had the chance to latch on to him, and... I did. I dropped the papers, bewildered by my own decision. My eyes watered, prayed, begged forgiveness for what I was about to do. The man's mouth was immobile, but his eyes widened in shock as I turned to grab hold of what felt more like a passing vehicle than a human.

Later, I wept when I learned that this man died of fever during his own escape.

I wept for what felt like the remainder of my life.

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I should explain the context for this insanity, but I don't have the energy to write. The world is embroiled in a pandemic, and our dreams have unleashed a plague upon our lives.