2/14/15
I'm in the old New York Times building on West 43rd Street. There is tension in the newsroom. Someone is trying to get us (yes, it seems I work here!) to keep from publishing something damaging to a politician. The particulars are very vague, but everyone at the paper, including myself, is very smug and no so gracious in victory.
I hear the sound of music. I see on the sidewalk below my office Dinah Washington in a red dress performing a Valentines Day concert. A woman approaches the makeshift stage and tries to shake Dinah's hand, but she is shooed away by security. At first I think they don't want the woman to realize that this isn't Dinah but rather an impersonator. And then I realize it's even worse than that: she's a hologram!
(Note: When I woke up this morning my radio was on and tuned to the local jazz station. They were in the middle of a twenty song Dinah Washington set. I would consider that an outside assist. Also, this is the second time in two weeks I dreamed that someone turned out to be a hologram. What the hell?? Or what the holl!)
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