Sometimes, I’ve decided, I will record dreams here.
So, I was in Paris. Well, I seemed to know it was Paris, but damned if it looked anything like the Paris I’ve seen in films and photos. For one thing, it looked rather like the titular Metropolis in Fritz Lang’s film: all glittering spires and towering edifices. For another, half the city was filled with Chinese restaurants.
I was in a Chinese restaurant. In Paris, of course. And an emo band was playing on a small stage in the Parisian Chinese restaurant. Not a specific emo band, mind you, not that I could tell one from other anyway, but just sort of a generic emo band. And I began to recognize that the emo band’s songs detailed the exact way I would soon fall in love with some unknown young woman, only to meet my tragic, untimely demise soon after in a train accident.
Now, I don’t remember what precisely cued me to the prognosticative nature of Generic Emo Band’s lyrics, nor why they should pertain to me. But I was certain that this was the case. Moreover, totemic images from my tale of woe (spelled out in detail in the band’s songs, remember), were also represented on item’s of the band members’ clothing; in particular, I remember at one point noticing that one band member’s belt buckle bore the image of the very locomotive that promised soon to be the engine of my demise.
As you might imagine, this was cause for some concern. I noticed the Generic Emo Band leaving the Parisian Chinese restaurant. I followed them to a coffeehouse. This was not, mind you, one of the arty bohemian coffeehouses of our collective imaginary’s version of Paris. No. This was a full-on, fully corporatized coffeehouse, of the Starbucks variety, complete with tchotchkes and knick-knacks galore cluttering the counters.
I found the Generic Emo Band in a small performance lounge past the main counter of the Fully Corporatized Coffeehouse. I asked them why they wrote songs about my imminent demise, and how they knew with such precision the details of my fate. They pled innocence. They didn’t know me from Adam, they’d been playing these songs long before I saw them in the Parisian Chinese restaurant. And so on. This made things seem even stranger. In the midst of my accusations and the Generic Emo Band’s pleas of innocence, I met the girl with whom the Generic Emo Band foresaw me falling in love, but now I don’t remember what she looked like, or if the dream girl (literally) was, in fact, anyone I know in non-dream life. In any event, I fell in love. I woke up.
I don’t even listen to emo music.