My father's old Mark VII was one of the things in the pile of junk my mother wanted me to dispose of after he died. In a few more years it might have been worth a few tokens in one of the (way too) many quaintique shops in the Historic Improvement Zone. At that time though, I couldn't have gotten shuttle fair home for the gadget.
So instead of trying to sell it I took it back to my personalspace and tried it out. Only at night. For the next month or two I dreamed my father's dreams.
He liked the commercials and product placements--full strength and unfiltered. He wasn't unusual in that respect. Marketing surveys consistently show that the vast majority of warmbodies actually prefer the dreams scripted by corporate hucksters to the random, sometimes nonsensical, often unpleasant dreams that the freerange mind will produce.
The only dream that was at all interesting was a mildly erotic one involving a young boy on a beach. That one showed up fairly frequently.
I stopped using the thing when I realized that I hadn't written a
single word after the first three or four nights. Six weeks without so
much as a journal entry.