What's a few days more, after all?
The long weekend leaves me with thinking time while I wait for the announcement of probably the biggest event in this little life. Do I go home (although the state has taken away the home) or do I remain a captive? I mean, will I be allowed to return to humanity, to manhood, to be an actual person again who has a name rather than a number?

Saturday, Sunday, Monday. On Tuesday I might be told, but the industry is very busy, I must understand that, so it’s more likely to be Wednesday.

We are the stuff that dreams are made of, and even in the eight-year nightmare, there are gentler dreams. Last night, I was working with a pleasant fellow, and such a likeable one that I soon told him about these years, about the worst bits, and the good bits, of a dubious prosecution, about the bursts of learning that have made such a difference.

Later on he said, ‘I have to report back now.’ The realisation arrived right away. He was one of them, and my heart with some old vestiges apparently from a former non-caged life, had put me off my guard and allowed me to be taken in. ‘You have shown great improvement,’ he said. ‘But my view is that you need another six months, and that’s what I shall be recommending to the board.’

In reality, six months (divided by the likely remaining time for this little life on the planet) is a huge time, the loss of which would be very grim indeed. To my later amazement - upon waking, I mean – I was very grateful in the dream for his consideration, for his keeping in the dark the reason for our contact, and for the recommendation. Six months would be just the thing, I told him.

So glad it was a dream which really has no ability to foretell, as Hamlet claims. 'We do not believe in augury.' I hope Hamlet was right. Tuesday or Wednesday may tell.