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Here are the two snippets I remember from a dream I had about Leonard Nimoy last night:
1.
I was walking through the lobby of a hotel. It was late afternoon or early evening. For some reason, I was wearing sunglasses inside, and it was making it very difficult to see. I kept bumping into furniture. I approached a long, raised platform along a wall which was surrounded by an ornate pine railing. There was a podium at the head of the platform, at which Leonard Nimoy was standing. It was unclear whether he was preparing to orate or whether he was simply surveying the lobby from a position of podium-created power.
This was not the 1960's Star Trek - era Nimoy, nor was it present- day octogenarian Nimoy. I would put him at early nineties' era Nimoy, probably in his late 50's. He was wearing a dark grey blazer, a black shirt, and a fedora. He was also wearing sunglasses.
I stumbled against the platform in front of him, and caught myself against the railing. He briefly looked down at me.
I said, "I can't see in this fucking lobby."
He looked back at the podium before him and said, "You should take off the sunglasses."
I said, "Even without them, I can't see a thing in here. Look at this fucking lobby."
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2.
It is late evening now. Probably 2 or 3 in the morning. The lobby is pitch black. I have just come in, returning from I don't know where, and I have a pint glass of ale in my hand. Again, I find myself struggling to find a path through the décor. This is made even more difficult by the fact that I am carrying a large glass of ale. I make my way to the back wall. There is a long table that runs the length of it, toward the reception desk and the corridor where the elevators are. I brace myself against the table and take a sip of beer.
I am suddenly very aware of a presence in the lobby, directly across the room from me. Through the darkness I feel it. I sense it; over another railing, beyond a carpeted oasis that contains several stuffed chairs, a table and a sofa that I am sure is there, though I cannot see them. The presence is ominous. It's heavy. It is sensitive, impatient and angry. Just as I know that the oasis of furniture is there, I know that it is Mr. Nimoy, there in the darkness, annoyed that his quiet time and / or his slumber is being disturbed. Disturbed by the likes of me, careening around the lobby at such an ungodly hour, shuffling my feet and smashing into things. The hairs stand up on the back of my neck.
A familiar someone, or a group of someones, beckons me somehow from the direction of the reception desk. I cringe at the gesture, though I cannot say now whether it was auditory or a simple movement in the dark (which I couldn’t even have seen). I feel Nimoy's aggravation flare up in the abyss like magma bubbles in a pregnant volcano.
I know I have to be very, very careful and docile with any movements I make. The atmosphere in the lobby is positively suffocating under Nimoy's terrifying, furious presence. It won't take much to provoke him, I know that.
Very carefully, very gently, I set my glass down on the table beside me.
I know immediately that something has gone horribly wrong. The glass is not level.
Dear God, I've set it on the edge of something atop the table! As I realize this, it's already too late. My hand is already releasing the glass. I move back to catch it, but it's no use. It wobbles ever so slightly, making a slight bassy series of clinks before it finally steadies itself.
I barely have to time inhale, and I feel Nimoy's dark presence swoop across the room. He covers it in a matter of miliseconds; Straight across the black expanse, over the chairs, couches and railing in a heartbeat.
I feel a blow on the back of my head, just above my neck.
Then another.
Then another.
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I can't drive the bus and argue with you rubes all at the same time!
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eter, aka 
usty 
halk
