2001.
Rarotonga.
Cook Islands.
Same dream.
Lights, undulating, over creamy smooth water.
A sense of dread. Vague. Deadly.
Night time.
The dream returns, again and again.
My waking brain fills in the details my dreams miss. On the left, trees; high, round, dark. In front of me, a bridge, old, stone and with arches, perhaps. The lights, maybe a train, passing overhead, reflecting down a still, calm river.
Where, or why, I don't know.
Eventually I get used to it, the dream, the haunting. Stop wondering where, or why, or who. Just that roar, those lights, echoing and undulating over water, and the knowledge that, in this dream, whoever I am, wherever I am, I'm going to die.
And in those moments before I always wake, of knowing death; a sense of calm, profound tranquility.
ČTEŠ
Who killed JPK?
Literatura faktu. . . "Many people tell us they have dreams." She was a French woman, in French Polynesia, and she sat opposite, at our little table, beside a cobbled lane, stretching down towards the foreshore of Pape'ete. Behind me, the sound of a two-stroke scoo...
