Dreamed 1992/1/15 by Chris Wayan
I dreamed the Stealth Bomber was alive: a great black Owl, with yellow Eyes, perched on a Juggernaut. And Stealth was worshiped. Robed senators with torches, chanting to their silent god, pulled Stealth onward, through the forests of the night.
After my dream, I understand how militarists feel: their weapons aren't toys or penises or status symbols. The Owl in my dream was none of these.
Stealth was a god. And it was beautiful.
We need substitutes for the delicious dread that hooks arms addicts (even pacifists, even me). We need a methadone for doom.
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