The Fifth Beatle

 

Last night I dreamt I was the fifth Beatle. It was the oddest thing. We were at a large gathering of some kind wearing white suits, the five of us, Ringo, George, Paul, John, and me. Odder still was the fact I knew John was either dead or going to die and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. 

My sense was that he was also aware of the gravity of his situation, but continued to talk and laugh as if it didn’t matter. I felt as his friend I should do something or say something. All I could eventually bring myself to do was hug him and whisper in his ear, “It’s going to be alright.”

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