It was the Renaissance. Early Renaissance. I was sitting on a hill. There was a large ornate blanket and an exquisite picnic. Fruits and deserts, golden bread. The colors were all rich, oranges, reds, deep pinks and earth greens. I am wearing a beautiful gown, rich in detail, tons of fabric. John Malkovich was sitting beside me. A battle was raging in the valley below. The soldiers and horses were small, their clashing a faint sound. We were laughing. He leaned over. I turned my head to imitate a blush. And then he stabs me in the stomach. I am stunned. I try to look down, but he continues to lean over. He whispers something in my ear. My face begins to melt in horror. Whatever he is telling me, it is clearly worse than the act of killing me. I open my mouth to scream. And that's when I wake up.
Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!
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