conscience doth make cowards of us all

Since Josh is practically begging me to tell the tale, I suppose I shall describe what, in my dream life, passes for a slightly unusual occurrence. (In your dream life, it'd probably be worth a trip to a therapist.)

This is a dream. I repeat: this is a dream.

In a church-like building with a large glass window facing the street, I am sitting in a pew, beside fifty-odd people who cower in terror before Adolf Hitler and his henchmen. We have been rounded up for some unknown reason, and the not knowing only adds to the terror. Hitler stalks the rows, stopping to interrogate his prey, who splutter out answers, fearing for their very lives.

And then he comes to my row.

He sits down next to me. Two thoughts jostle in my brain: I should think of a way to get him off his game, and, From here, I could probably snap his neck over the back of the pew.

Trying desperately to sound calm, I ask, "So, Adolf, what was it like growing up in Austria? How do you think your upbringing influenced your later life?"

"Actually, I was born in England," Hitler replies. A wave of nostalgia crashes over him, and tears form in his eyes. I could just... I think. But the guards...

"Pardon me," Hitler says. He gets up, strides to the door, stands outside, where, even through the glass, it is obvious that he is shaken up.

A kid sitting next to me gasps. "You made Hitler cry!"

"Shut up!" I whisper. "If anyone finds out, we're all dead."

I made Hitler cry, it's true. But I didn't take the chance to kill him. My dream self is a coward.



[Tie featured here.]