In some sorta time machine

i had a dream i was henery kissinger. i was writing a song about east timor and singing in portuguese. there were two other people in a small room. i was comfortable. i found an octave that allowed my voice to fall in and out of the music and was fumbling around for the recording equipment. while holding this note, i was trying to get the microphone to work and swore in english. the people in the room became unfamiliar with my out burst and began to spout off about my relation to several assassinations involving human rights activists in chile and something called the dirty war. i'm not sure what they were talking about (i didn't know pinochet, suharto or anything about operation condor). A cambodian refugee dressed in fatigues, burst into the room and held a single-barrel shotgun to my head shouting aggressively in khmer and spitting all over my glasses. the mist of saliva screened my vision and i felt several blows to my head. my knees gave way. there was a warmth in my ear as it was pressed to the dirt floor.
i woke up (not knowing time or place) and grabbed my car keys. walked outside. i came to, standing in my drive way smoking a cigarette.