I dreamt we made love on an ironing board. It was noon.
I dreamt someone invented a recursive flyswatter — the further away from its starting point you moved it, the exponentially larger and further away a projected duplicate of itself grew. It wasn’t an illusion; the duplicate was solid and had its own mass, and mimicked your movements of the original. It was designed so that you could cover greater surface areas with it and hit more flies with a smaller swat.
But it hadn’t been tuned right; it was too sensitive. Moving it back only a few feet made the duplicate’s paddle like six feet across. Walking it from one room to another would potentially knock down walls in a building.
Somehow I flew the flyswatter to the moon. Its duplicate was now larger than the Earth. It still responded to my movements, but its mass was so great that the tides were shifting. I reared back, and swatted the Earth, and watched as seas and continents exploded through the lattice grid. I thought about celestial objects moving this fast and got nauseated and woke up.
