I really hope I'm not a prophet

It's 4am.  I'm a little freaked out right now. This is my dream

It's the apocalypse is the best I can guess.  I don't remember when I started worrying, but I've checked facebook, and unread messages is climbing rapidly. A friend has written a note telling us to hug our families, we don't know when they will be gone.

One of my neighbors, the woman I spoke to in the laundry room last night is insisting that she can see UFO's in the sky.  I've been telling her that's silly, it's a trick, a cloud formation.  But, no, this time I've gone outside, and the sky seems full, and the clouds are becoming fighter jets.  I try to call my parents, but there's no answer, there's no service.  The sky is teeming black with these flying mechanical monsters.

I frantically trying to reach my parents on my cell, I start to scream and cry "They're all dead!" I gather the girls and run inside, and my family is there.  I start to sob with relief.  My dad informs me that a woman outside (for some reason I can see her, she's a waif, half-crazy, dressed in white with wild hair) has told him that 'we're all going away, we're all going away'.  I picture concentration camps.  He says we should all be able to stay together, except for him, as a media figure he's 'too influential, too dangerous'.  I can hear explosions outside and we are all clinging to each other, crying, wondering what it will feel like to die.

It seems interminably long.

I've gone back to the friends blog, and in it they are urging people to write, write, write whereever they can, on whatever they can, to maintain a record, in anyway to remind whatever, whoever, of the world before.  I comment that I'm scared, so scared.  One comment out of thousands.  I'm searching for a pen, the only one i have is dead but I've managed to scribble my kids names on the back of a photograph, just to prove they were there. 

No more banana bread before bed.