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There is a dream I have, over and over, year after year. It differs slightly each time, but fundamentally it remains the same. It doesn't matter where it takes place, sometimes it's a city, sometimes I'm in the country, a forest, an overcast ruin of a once-town.
I am carrying a pillowcase. It's very heavy and inside it is a severed head. I never unravel the fabric to look at it, at who it might be, nor do I ever know how I ended up with it. Yet every single time it's in my possession and I an running, trying to find a place to hide it so that no one will find out. So I won't get caught. So whomever gave it to me won't get caught. It is heavy, warm and ungainly and no matter how far I run and no matter where I try and hide it, within minutes of doing so people start to converge upon me, drawn directly to the place I never thought they would find.
I had it again last night, and yet again I did not look to see who the head belonged to. It didn't even occur to me until I woke that I should. The most basic question, and I didn't even think to ask it.
Maybe it's not a thing I'm meant to know