Some years ago I dreamed that my friend from school, Aimilee, transformed me into a human table. As she explained it, the sublime object of all life is to be transformed into furniture, without the burden of movement or thought. Unfortunately for most, this blessed change occurs only after death. Aimilee, ever generous, wanted me to be her table while still alive.
I was stripped naked and covered in yellow-brown furniture polish, joining my wrists and ankles to the carpet as it cured. On my back she rested a tall stack of china plates, whose clatter would betray my failures of motion. I was not allowed to eat except for fistfulls of goosefeathers--another test, though perhaps more cruel. Like good furniture, I was made to be naturally ignored. Aimilee went about her day using me only when necessary, and never acknowledging my uselessness or accessory humanity. It really felt that I had achieved something.
I never told Aimilee about this dream, though not for any reason in particular. Perhaps it would have been uncouth, or else just disappointing that she would never in the waking world have furniture so perfect. I couldn't bear that.
Really, that's about it.