Diana Adams, 46
I have cameras on each fingertip, they not only take pictures but can zap people into a frozen-in-time state, enabling me to move them where I want them to be. At the time of this dream I was daunted by the novel I was working on, so this dream gave me what I needed at the time—ghost writers. I wanted people to write for me. I gathered about twenty people—ten men, ten women—and put them in a library. It was an old oaken library with stained glass windows—almost as if it were half library, half church. One woman had a beehive hairdo with moths fluttering around her. One black-haired man would type as he looked into the eye sockets of a skull. The music that was playing was big band, and the people typed on old Remington Rand typewriters. I took pictures of them with my fingertips, and then lay down to listen to the sound of the typing as it collided with the horns in the music. Finally, I could rest without worrying about how many words I was writing.