[3 September 1993]

I am building a huge structure that is later to be burned and I am building it with several other people. A great wooden structure. We are standing on top of it, stamping in pieces of wood. But it begins to fall apart. We balance on top of it as it falls apart, thinking how we can escape to the building that is close to it. We begin with a plan of escape, hopping from plank to plank, while the structure wobbles beneath us. But the instability of the structure reaches a critical moment and we are still on top of it. We look at each other. Someone close says, “I’m sorry. There is nothing to do. Try to fall well.” I fall. I fall for a long time. I fall, hoping that I will die. I don’t. Instead, I find that the structure was a kind of prison and that there are thousands, like me, detained in it. The prison is built near a wide river. There are no trees, no riverbank (the grass, neatly trimmed, goes right down to the water). A giant boat comes up the river, turns the bend to approach the building, and people start getting off. I’m amazed. They are foreigners, journalists. We will be able to tell them our story.

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