In the dream I leaned over a workspace surrounded by bolts and plastic casings and wires, writing and rewriting the user manual for the time machine as I built it. Every part or piece of the machine had a precise function and I used common household items like cloth and a plunger, I whittled hundreds of tiny working gears out of wood and I didn’t sleep for five days. When I was finished the machine stood just over three feet tall and four feet wide and I stood there in my workspace, staring at it. There were parts and wires and fragments of my life strewn everywhere and I pressed a button to set the machine into motion. It vibrated to life in cascades of light and sound and the scent of almonds and I knew it would work, it was inevitable. Then I took a sledgehammer and smashed the machine to pieces.
In the dream I fell asleep upon the broken machine and dreamed again of time travel. In the dream’s dream I fashioned a drug rather than a machine for traveling forward and backward through time, a chemical compound of basic household ingredients in precise measurements, a subatomic cocktail in one compressed pill, and all one had to do to visit the Sixth Dynasty in Egypt was swallow that pill, all one had to do to help fight the imperialist invaders in the great galactic war of 3016 was snort a quick line, and when I woke from both dreams in simultaneity it was dark in my apartment and I didn’t know where I was until I looked out the window to the familiar lights of New York City across the bridge.