Last night I dreamt that I was in some sort of hyperreality that was like a mixture of the French Quarter of New Orleans and Versailles during a simulacrum of the Rococo period. It was Mardi Gras, and people were dressed up in painted faces and white wigs and elaborate mid-eighteenth-century outfits. I wore a gray dress that looked like something Madame de Pompadour would wear, and my wig was black instead of white. My group were all wearing somber colors, like deep blue, with silver braid.
There was another faction in town which dressed in red and white. A huge red-and-white carriage with red-and-white clockwork footmen (like in "The Girl in the Fireplace") rocked down the narrowish streets of the town to pick up guests for their party at a huge mansion. My group and I retreated down a dark alley to avoid being too close to the carriage. It was time for us to gather at our small celebration, so our leader, a good-looking young man wearing dark blue, dark green, and black, took us down a series of gray stone and taupe wood sidestreets until we came through an archway onto another busy street.
The red coach tore around the corner. A man in red and white and gold jumped out, grabbed me, and threw me inside the carriage. At that point, the scene cut back to the leader of our faction, who was now planning to get some clockwork explosives and sneak into the fancy red and white Mardi Gras ball with them. And then I woke up.
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