don’t you understand it’s not my problem?

In the middle of my mid-morning nap, I had a dream.

It was one of those dreams where you begin to confuse reality with magic.

I was in Portland with my pop. He was going off to a business meeting, so I decided to ride my extremely fast crotch rocket. I was speeding through the down-town area, running stop lights, and weaving in and out through traffic.

Slowly, I began to find myself in a lush, green farm land. Like in the spring when the wheat and alfalfa is just sprouting. I was happy because there were long straight stretches where I could go all out.

I came to a stop sign, and I got off my bike so that I could write the streets that I had taken down in my note book (I didn’t want to get lost). I realized I was standing next to an old farm house. I went in.

It obviously belonged to an old catholic couple. I can’t explain how I knew, I just did. I took a shower, and as I was getting dressed, I suddenly became nervous that the owners of the house would come in and find me inside. Just then I heard the knob of the bedroom door turn. I leapt out of the house, wearing only a t-shirt, underpants, and socks. As I ran around the side of the house, I passed the bedroom window, where I saw an old man asleep.

It was then that I woke up slightly, but I fell asleep immediately. I then dreamed that I was facing myself in a dark room. I began to narrate my escape from the police (whom the old people had called) and how I never knew who they were or why I went in, and how I never got my pants back.

Then I woke up once again, but this time I got up, combed my hair, and went to class.

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