We are now all together. There are twelve of us, disciples if
you will of Dexter Phillips. (We all realise how biblical this looks and joke
about it from time to time – but until we find more people who have these
dreams then that’s the way it is). We get up to a ringing bell in the morning,
which frankly is as relieving as any bell rang at the end of a particularly
fraught round of boxing, and then stagger down to the breakfast room. After we
eat some cereal we get together and explore what we all saw the night before,
how the images are linked and what they all mean. It’s wearisome work, but the
theories are forming and it feels like we’re getting somewhere.
All of us together we are a commune, a collective – one that
is working for the noble cause of saving the world. And perhaps I for one would
feel better about all of that, if it wasn’t for the intensity of the dreams and
the doom hanging over us the whole time.
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