I Hate Security Cameras On Public Property

Right. Sometimes I kill children in my dreams. Before I go on, I want you to know that I deliberately chose to write that sentence that way.
I am trying something new with my hair.
Sometimes, but not often, there are leagues, or scores, or plagues, or what-have-you, of children in my dreams. I burn them. I watch them die. I take solace in knowing somehow the world is better. Sometimes I have a sword in my hand. Sometimes I have a remote. Once I had a chicken. A toy motorcycle has been there on occasion. Last night, there was a flower.
I will never do much with my life.
The children always die the same way – fire. They bathe and play in gasoline and run and chase one another and giggle. I then ignite one, and all die. I watch them, searchingly, until all are dead. Then I exhale and focus to breathe in through my nose so I smell what I have done.
I am enjoying the book I am reading.
The dawn comes in and ushers in a sense of peace; of accomplishment of the unattainable. The dawn comes and I walk through the football field size of burned youth. I am met on the other side by their parents. They all thank me, and offer praise and gifts and cry for Holy Communion.
I understand your argument; I wish you could see it my way.
I ask the mothers and fathers why they asked this of me. Why did I have to kill their children? Why was it a good thing that these children are dead? They explain over one another, that the children are not dead. I turn and look at my mass murder and see children playing over the corpses of themselves.
I need to lose weight.
I turn back to the parents and express my disbelief. A small hand then grabs what is in my hand and takes it back to the other children. The children adore it. They thank me for it. They use it and all the knowledge they glean from it to usher in their generation.
I wake up and want pancakes.