Then I fell asleep. In my dream. And had another dream.
In *this* dream, I was on the plane that crashed into the Coliseum-like thing. I was sitting toward the tail of the plane, flying home from London, and looked up to see a masked man (*not* looking particularly Middle Eastern - more Caucasian than anything, I think) holding some sort of weapon and saying that we would die. No accent, that I remember. What I remember very clearly was pulling out a notebook and pouring messages to my mother especially, but also my brother and Bret, onto the pages. After I filled it up (and almost-consciously justified having a notebook on the plane - sometimes my conscious picks up on little details in my dreams and demands a reason why, ignoring the big implausible things), I wrapped the notebook in a piece of computer paper-type stuff, addressing it to myself in care of my mother, with the thought that it would hopefully be found in the wreckage and someone would send it on.
I looked out the window at that point, and saw the plane nosedive into the monument. It was tourist season - there were hundreds of people in this site, it being a warm (summer?) day, and none of them saw it coming. We had just gotten close enough for me to see the faces of the people as the nose made contact with the ground...
And I woke up. Well, my dream-self woke up, back in the other dream. I told Diane and Peter about the dream, and they tried to calm me down as I was extremely upset. Eventually, I drifted back off to sleep, and dreamt no more, waking up when my alarm clock went off.
My subconscious has some issues, is all I can figure.