I was on a jet with a group of people I liked well enough, although I didn't know any of them. Just anonymous, nondescript travelers you see on a plane: heavy, slow-moving, amiable Americans. In my dream, we could see where the plane was going, as if looking out the front windshield, and we all watched together, silently. We didn't see anyone else on the plane. It was actually pretty intimate, just us few being flown a few feet off the ground on a rainy spring day by an unseen pilot who had already taken over the plane.
We were flying under telephone wires and cables and over railroad tracks in an area that looks like the junkyards and collision centers along stretches of I-95 north of Philadelphia, like what you'd see looking out the window of an Amtrak train on your way out of the city heading to New York. We were flying very low and pretty fast, and all of a sudden there was the concrete wall of a big building right in front of us, and I knew we weren't going to be able to pull up or veer off to avoid it. We all knew in a sort of communal consciousness that we were going to crash into the building. We were completely calm, and we seemed to take comfort in each other, silently waiting to be killed.
So we slammed into the wall, and everything went dark. We had all died, but since we had all died together, we were connected to each other as we had been, on a kind of telepathic level. In the bodiless void, we considered together with our collective mind what it was like to now be dead.
Justin Coffin, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania