In dreamville, in the afterhours club of the subconcious, Don Rumsfeld has made my bed and I'm sleeping in it. It's all askew. I'm trying 'to get to the bottom of it' by stripping off the bedding, one layer at a time. But is this some convoluted reflection on my life solely or something else? I take off another layer of sheets. Each time there's a message that betrays Rummy — meeting notes, or scraps of newspaper, pity points that stun me. I can't remember them now, but the notion is that I've caught him in lies about the war and I alone have the proof. Now I must get to the 'authorities', have to make my way to 'headquarters', that upper room, where figures in the shadows sit around a lit table and discuss the great issues of the day. Men mostly, I can't see any women, in dark suits and white collars, vestments, robes...