When I was a kid, the thing I wanted most was a machine that would manifest my dreams exactly as they were, projecting them on a screen or implanting them into the minds of others, and theirs into mine. Before I had developed any aspirations beyond wanting to make out with Heather Thomas I had already stumbled upon one of my biggest writing obstacles.

Writing something down ruins it. It's a fact. I'm not Wittgenstein, so I'm not going to try to explain why or go into some dialectic about the limitations of language, I simply know it is so from experience. I know speed has to be a part of the problem - the sensory mind moves at a pace the lexical mind cannot match, and as that other side of your brain busies itself in translation, the sounds, image, and sense of the dream gets bored, confused, and would rather watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on TNT one more time. As selfish as being a writer is, I'm reminded that there is something selfless in futzing up your own inner experience with the inconvenient task of wedging into a format that others can access.

This is where the dream machine is supposed to do its thing--a third-party device capable of recreating the inner experience with absolute fidelity, freeing up your conscious and unconscious to devote 100% of your inner resources to wonderment.

Read more: The Dream Machine

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