When the heads begin to roll, when the blood runs thick through our streets and over our office carpets, when the stars fall from the sky like slender threads of filament, Oprah will be seated at the head of power. Oprah, nude underneath a drape of Dalmatian fur. And in her right hand she will hold a golden scepter with the gilded letter O at its crest. From the O, a piercing light will flit to and fro in simulcast, smiting the subversive and the unhappy. From her mouth, great proclamations; her husky voice will wash, broadcasted, over the earth, and 50,000 who hear it will wince as their ears melt and run like wax before drying shut. And another 200,000 will begin bleaching their bodies in preparation for the return of the Lord.
Oprah herself will be known by many names. The Beast. The leveler. Jemima Deville. And at her 100th birthday bash - slurping caviar and penguin meat, the Girls of Facebook dancing unclothed before her - she will tear the final seal, unleashing the Seacrest upon the earth and installing a thousand-year reign of peptalkcracy.
More dream revelations as they come to me...
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