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Dean Whitbread 2013

Dean Whitbread 2020

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Written on November 2, 2004, and categorized as Secret and Invisible.
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Last night I dreamt that I was sitting in a cafe with some friends, just chatting and hanging out. George W Bush came into the cafe. Dressed in his election blue regular guy shirt, he was looking pretty anxious and stressed as he took 10 minutes out, sitting on a table on his own, having a coffee.

He looked so bad that I had a moment of sympathy. “You look tired, George. This electioneering is tough, isn’t it?” I said. He looked up, a flash of gratitude for my comment, and mumbled a few words of agreement. I recalled the comments I had seen yesterday on the news by a lipsticked Republican, which were that while Bill Clinton may not have been liked by Republicans, they didn’t consider him the threat that Kerry was, and passed them on to show my understanding of his situation.

Even in my dream I was fairly surprised to be offering GW any encouragement at all, but he looked so damn stressed, I felt that as human being, he needed it. To my right a guy I didn’t know started to engage GW more, putting some political points to him, not being aggressive exactly, but not really letting him have the space he so clearly needed.

I notied that the guy was wearing a head microphone on like a TV sports pundit or a telephonist or something; he was American and looked kind of professional. George, for all his sins, just needed his coffee break, and this guy wasn’t giving it to him.

I grew uncomfortable and GW stuttered some inadequate responses, and started to sweat, so I moved to George’s table, interrupting the flow of the persecutor. George looked actually sick by now, not good at all. I stared into his face, and he started to speak to me directly. What he said was less remarkable than the changes in his face. His skin ruptured and he wept blood. His face changed to that of a much younger man, then to a youthful version of Kerry, then back to GW. This happened several times over. George was in there, but he was possessed, struggling to emerge, but unable to. Despite the nightmarish vision, I was unscared, remained concerned for the host, and saw clearly that he was the puppet of powers more sinister than merely political.

I realised that whoever wins, at the moment he takes power, the Devil will have him. Not for nothing is the Pentagon the shape it is. Poor George. Poor John. Poor US.

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