I just awoke from the most amazing dream and I had to, upon waking, rush to the computer and try and capture it:
I am a writer for a large newspaper, New York Times, Washington Post, etc and my job is to write articles for a weekend type column that usually enumerates things: Top 10 places to get your pet neutered and be pampered - just really bizarre stuff that no one reads. Since no one, i was thinking in my dream, read them I felt emboldened to fill the lists with poetry or insanely minutely detailed information about myself and/or my surroundings.
What was odd was that the poetry/prose had a three dimensional feel to it. It felt like I was in a giant zip-lock baggie and the words were being poured into the bag (as they appeared on the pages of the column) and I could move through that space. Like I could swim through the minutiae of missed English assignments in Mr. Burke's 7th grade class at New London Junior High. The more detailed and dazzlingly higher the infomation being categorized the closer it was to the outside of the bag it was: the hairs of my left leg enumerated and categorized by length, hue and curliness. As I moved through the data-filled bag of myself and emotions I was also outside of the bag watching how it would meander through the paper's section taking over like an invading fungus on the page, formless and random.
In my dream none of my superiors noticed what was happening but eventually Esquire magazine took notice and named one their Best & Brightest for the 2013 Genius issue.
Dudes at Esquire: If for some unglodly reason anything even remotely like this happens, I want to be on the cover, ok?