C’est juste une reve.
And I don’t know what fed into it. I was looking at and discussing garments before I went to sleep. Then I went to sleep while listening to The Historian. I woke up at 6AM, which is in the ball park of when I’m supposed to wake up. It was too early, though. I intended on getting up thirty minutes later, but thirty became so much more. It was then that I had the dream, an ensemble cast dream. It doesn’t come back coherently except for a handful of motifs:
Donuts that may or may not be poisoned.
Plastic clothed tables in the front yard.
A tall blonde.
A person, I think female with long, curly brown hair, shorter than I.
A young man who bore a resemblance to a much better looking, young Tate Donovan.
I remember this young man most clearly. He wore blue jeans and a turquoise sweatshirtish jacket (sans hood and the zipper didn’t go all the way down) with a navy blue-lined collar. He had brown hair. I saw him a couple times in the first portions of the dream and then again in the end. I walked into my house through the garage and saw him coming down the stairs that connects the kitchen with the den. I asked him something, don’t recall what. He answered and made some gesture that compelled me to ask, “What have you had to eat today?”
He said a lot. I then asked if he could fuck standing up. I don’t know why I asked!
And he answered, “I have before.”
But before anything could happen, I woke up.
But there’s more. This man actually looked more like this person I’ve seen at work. I believe three times in in the past two or three months. I got to work and as I passed the cafeteria, I glanced to the right and saw him. Though I probably won’t see him again for another two or three months.
Calebassier. Quel etrange.