I dreamt this morning that I was crushed inside a small elevator with Jeffrey Ford. We were headed many miles underground to an abandoned coal mine which had been turned into an art gallery and performance space. It was a long and seemingly endless journey down. Once we reached our destination, I wasn’t quite claustrophobic in the repurposed area, but I could feel the weight of the Earth’s crust above me, and was always aware of it throughout the dream.

The exhibits in the dark and narrow room were in small pens behind metal chain link fencing. I could see books, magazines, and bizarre sculptural artifacts on display, but now that I’m awake I can no longer remember the specifics of any of them. There were many other visitors milling about in the tiny space, but the only one I recognized (other than Jeffrey Ford, who had arrived with me) was Bruce Sterling, who was being treated like a celebrity. Bruce was happy and laughing, carefree and casual, the only one seemingly unconcerned that a sudden cave-in might crush us all.

The host of the space brought over a young fan, and offered her to Sterling, as if Chairman Bruce was allowed anyone there as a form of droit de seigneur. But Bruce was a gracious Lord, and waved the punkish blonde woman off.

My attention returned to the exhibits, and I cursed myself for failing to bring along my camera. I thought of returning to the surface for it, but knew that another roundtrip would take hours, and by then it would be too late, for the exhibit space would be dismantled.

I awoke while bemoaning my forgetfulness.