Spooky Action at Distance involving Quantumly Entangled Dreams

A women leans against a plain white house.

The house is indistinguishable from the other houses on the block:  spread out like the nightmare in Vincent Price's neighborhood.   But she is showing this particular house a great deal of affection.   Nestled against the downspouts.  Cheek against the painted metal.

She now whispers something to the house.  Coupled with a strange caress.  The neighborhood is deserted.  Its Twilight.  Where did everyone go?  She wished them all away.  She is now adjusting to the consequences.

She breaks her embrace with the house with the faintest of smiles.  She looks forward to a life without distractions, without responsibilities.  Without noise.  Her body tingles with excitement in the eerie silence. Her eyes shimmer in the dim light like the waves of the Black Sea.

She does not see or hear the wisp of the rocket's vapor high overhead descending inexorably, inevitably to the ground.

Then, of course, our scene changes abruptly.  Now we are in that space ship hurtling down though the clouds high overhead.  The red lights and klaxons of the cockpit are blaring loudly.  Beyond frantic, the pilot is trying to manipulate the buttons, dials, and levers to avoid the crash. Chaos, panic, anxiety, and just when you think its over, there is more chaos, anxiety and panic--a lot more.   But you know its not going to work. And I know its not going to work.  And he knows its not going to work. It never does.  And all the breathing exercises in the world are not going to slow down his heart this time.

The ground is rushing up from below.  Sweat pores down the pilot's face as he clenches his teeth and prepares for impact.

Later, on the planet's surface, the pilot lays sprawled out over a smooth ledge near the top of a crater. This crater is even bigger than the last one he created.   A lot bigger.  Debris from the rocket ship smolders next to him.   He crawls on the ground but his progress stops as he comes to the lip of the crater.   He pulls himself over the ledge and tries to peer into the abyss he created.   As his strength fails him at length, he mutters to himself.  "Shadow," said he, "where can it be, this land of El Dorado?"

The scene pans out, and we see the pilot laying still, hand drooping over the edge of the crater, hot sun reflecting off the pilot's stationary helmet. Alone and dying on a deserted planet.  Well almost deserted. Just like last time.

But wait, there's more, we return to the woman leaning against the house.  In our absence, she fell asleep and now is waking up to the mid-morning sunlight and a strange whooshing noise from overhead.  She is not happy that her silence has been broken.  Her eyes follow the rocket's trajectory down and her body involuntarily tightens as she waits for the sound of the impact.

The pilot wakes up in bed next to the woman.  He glances at the alarm clock.   3:42 am.  He puts his arm around her and tries to go back to sleep.  But you know, and I know, and he knows, that sleep will not come.

The woman, already awake, wishes she was somewhere else.  And alone with her house.