I had that dream again.

The one where I’m writing a (capitalist) manifesto. 

As always, it starts with me sitting at my desk. 
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I stare at the strategy on my laptop screen: it’s simple and elegant and client-approved. I bold a few words, then copy+paste them into a notes app. These are my building blocks. At a minimum, they’re words the client likes. I spend five minutes moving them around because… productivity?
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Distraction takes hold. I Google some stuff that’s been on my mind: ‘cheap flights bali’, ‘mozart dirty letters’, ‘joe rogan net worth’, ‘unexplained knee pain’, ‘crispy skin salmon’. 
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I am, of course, waiting for an external force to tell me what to write. I’m waiting for something ineffable to crawl out of the laptop, like the monochromatic monster girl from The Ring, and shock me out of my default stupor. For me, writing is waiting. 
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There’s a knock at the door. Waiting will have to wait. I open the door and two men are standing in the hallway:

1) A tall, skinny chap wearing a tiny black beanie, oversized black tee, faded black jeans, and scuffed black ankle boots. He has a golden halo and big white wings (feathers are going everywhere).

2) A short, stout, bald fellow with horns. He’s in a dark green flannel shirt, beige trousers, and sneakers that cost more than my rent. He's holding a pitchfork in his left hand. There appear to be flames in his pupils.
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They speak in unison, in the stilted and overly enunciated Brit-ish accent that actors use in Sir Ridley Scott historical epics to simulate gravitas.

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Hallway Guys: “Fancy showing us where you’re up to, mate?”
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Me: “Would you like to come in? Have a cup of Earl Grey or something?”
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Hallway Guys: “You haven’t typed a single word, have you?”
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Me: “So you don’t wanna come in? Should I bring the laptop over or… ”
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Hallway Guys: “Stop stalling.”
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Me: “I’m not. I just wasn’t expecting company.”
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Hallway Guys: “That bad, eh?”
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Me: “No. Like... I mean, it’s early days. Far too early for a review.”
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Hallway Guys: “Can we give you some advice, mate?”
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Me: “You can if you have some to give.”
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Hallway Guys: “In a way, it’s actually rather good that you haven’t written anything yet. When you finally do get stuck in, keep this in mind: how you start is so bloomin’ important.”
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Me: “Bloomin’?” 
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Hallway Guys: “How you start is very important.”
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Me: “Right.” 
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Hallway Guys: “You need to connect with your audience immediately; make them feel the words. Try giving them something human, something true.”
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Me: “A human truth, even.”
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Hallway Guys: “No need to be a smartarse. Just open strong and lure them in.” 
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Me: “I think I can do that. I mean, I usually do. You don't become a multi-award winning—”
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Hallway Guys: “We’re not here for your CV, mate. We’re just trying to help.”
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And with that, the duo vanishes. I notice they’ve left behind a sizable violet stain on the carpet. How am I supposed to explain that to my landlord?
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I close the door then return to my desk. 
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Out it comes:
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In an ever-changing world, what’s next for you is what’s most important to us. 
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That’s why we make keyrings.
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I read it aloud. I pump my fist. I slap my desk with both hands, stand up, and say to myself: “Yes! That’s it! Strong start. Really sets the scene. Scale and intimacy. Transformation and assurance. You and us. What a beautiful balance I’ve struck. Nobody’s ever written a manifesto like this before.”  

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Each time I have the dream, the product differs: keyrings, shoelaces, thimbles, machetes, lava lamps, pesticides, dog beds, volleyballs, syringes, etc. But each time, one thing stays the same: without fail, as soon as I’m done thoroughly praising myself, I wake up.

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Dan is a writer who lives in Sydney. He will give you words in exchange for money, but he won't give you writing advice. You can link up with him here.