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This dream was unusual because it happened to prominently feature zombies(!). Zombies aren't really something that I think about on a daily basis, I don't think I've ever really even watched a zombie movie as a matter of fact, but nevertheless, I find myself trying to write a breakup letter to my boyfriend because I found out that his dad is a zombie...

Instead of being in our early twenties and fresh out of college, my boy and I were in high school. He lived with his parents, and it was after school and we were hanging out at their house. Being young and horny, we went off in search of a little privacy, and found ourselves in the basement of the house. Though I never saw his mother and his father was a shadowy figure, I guess it was safer to boink furiously there than in a more obvious place, like a bedroom.

We never get down to business, however (unfortunate, because my boyfriend bore a striking resemblance to Josh Hartnett, and that would have been a wonderful memory to wake up to...), because after our eyes adjust to the blackness, I notice something strange hanging near the stairs. It is a bicycle hanging from hooks, but the bicycle has a rider--the dried-out corpse of his father's best friend who, come to think of it, I hadn't seen around in a while.

Strangely enough, neither of us freak out about this, I ask, "Is that what I think it is." "Sure looks like it to me." Come to think of it, I hadn't seen his mother around in a while either. I asked my boyfriend about it, and he had no idea where she was, and his father hadn't said anything. We slowly look around, and find another corpse, his mother's, dried out not decomposed and it was obvious that someone had been accessing the brain. My boyfriend's dad was a zombie.

The discovery led me to run fleeing from the house. I had to break up with him, I couldn't hang around in the same house as a zombie. What if he ground up other people's brains in the hamburger meat when he barbequed? What if I was his next victim? Then again, if I write this letter and break his heart, his dad might come after me for hurting his son. The debate on the proper wording of the letter was when my alarm clock sounded. Apparently, it's really hard to break up with the son of a zombie.

Fear. I've stumbled upon a strange internet conspiracy. A group of European(?) terrorists have kidnapped an important personage and are holding him for ransom. They've set up a website on which to broadcast photographs of the tortures to which they are subjecting their unfortunate captive.

The pictures are ghastly and merciless, each containing an image of bloody, lopped-off body parts and mangled, still-attached appendages. The terrorists have somehow logged my e-mail, my I.P. address, and my location. They know where I am, and they will be coming for me shortly.

Bloody paper bags, each containing evidence of the sordid spectacle to which I was just privy, have been transferred to my home. I have very little time to hide them before the terrorists arrive. My mind is awash with terror, doubt, and inchoate plans to save myself from this nightmare. I rush to my car, bags in hand, and attempt to stuff the bloody sacks into the trunk. I get them inside, but the trunk won't close!

Too panicked to try another hiding place, I desperately slam the trunk shut again and again, each time staring in horror as it refuses to stay closed.

As my trepidation reaches its zenith, I hear the voice of a little boy coming from the driveway. There is another car, this one unfamiliar to me, parked where my parent's vehicle should be. I'm drawn towards the sound of the voice, compelled by hope, confusion, and morbid curiosity to discover who exactly has come for a visit.

Suddenly, I'm struck by comprehension. This situation is bizarre and implausible. How did a website transfer material goods to my house? In fact, this isn't my house at all. Why, then, is my computer inside? This must be a dream!

This realization frightens me even /more/, somehow. I scratch my arm, hoping to wake myself up if this is, indeed, a dream. It doesn't work. The absurdity of the situation still has me convinced that I am, indeed, asleep.

So I do what any normal, rational person does when he thinks he's asleep, I try to fly. It works, but I only get about two feet above the ground. This is cool for a few moments, but then I realize I can neither ascend nor make my way back towards the ground, no matter how much I strain in either direction.

My exertions produce some of the strangest imagery I've ever experienced without the use of psychadelic drugs. I simultaneously remain hovering, unable to move, and end up being thrust into space. A prismatic array of nebulae, galaxies, and quasars mix and meld with choice slices of bits of my yard, bedroom, and living room. This should be /very/ cool, but it terrifies me for some reason. Although I can't move my mouth, a strident mental scream continually echoes through my brain, wake up, wake up, wake up

I feel my leg move. Not my leg in the dream, but my real leg. I have two bodies. Two bodies! I can feel both, but the one which I just moved is definitely the genuine article. My dream body feels somehow /less/, as if projecting myself into another world has somehow attenuated my essential self.

I move my real body to the edge of the bed before my eyes finally adjust to the real world. My bedroom comes into focus. I'm here! I'm alive! My heart-beat is impossibly fast and irregular, and my limbs feel like ice. I pace around my house for a few minutes, expecting my environment, rubbing my arms, and attempting to ascertain whether or not I'm in reality. Finally, accept that I cannot discern any real difference between this reality and the one in the dream, outside of plausibility and memories.

I don't know why these images elicited such ineffable horror in me. My entire body was soaked in sweat when I awoke, and it took me an entire day to get over the fear. Perhaps it was how bloody realistic and vivid this dream was. Or maybe it was my complete inability to distinguish the difference between my verity and versimilitude outside of a few facts and general staples of my life.

I literally cannot extricate this dream or the feelings it invoked from my mind. It was as if the images and events were merely symbols for some sort of unspeakable evil. While writing this dream down, I came to realize that, by themselves, the situation or the images aren't very novel or original, and, in written form, it will be difficult to understand how they could evoke any fear whatsoever. I umm, just had relate this thing to someone. So, I'm sorry for wasting your time. I suppose that's what dream logs are for, though. Sigh.

My wife and I are in a strange city, a combination of Bombay and Shotesham, if such a thing were at all possible. There is an ever-present roar in the background. The sea? I do not know. The place is strange, different. And yet we belong here, somehow, though this is not where we live, it feels like home, more like home than our real home. We go into a shop, and now my mother is with us too. We wander around the shop for a while, and find ourselves heading towards the sewing machine department. It will be our wedding anniversary soon, and I am going to buy a sewing machine for my wife. I have not spoken to my wife about this - I have not even thought about the idea until that moment. Yet now it is as if that were the reason for our being here, as if we had planned this all along.

We enter the sewing machine section. We now stand in a great hall, next to a thick, pillared stone wall. I can barely see the mighty vaulted roof, high above me. I cannot see the other walls. Rows and rows of sewing machines of every conceivable description stretch into the distance. Hundreds of officious-looking people in long white robes move amongst the machines. They're caring for the machines' needs, I think to myself. How did I know that?

I am fascinated by one of the machines; a smooth, sleek, grey affair. I move towards it. Its name is written in a strange script which I cannot read. The serifs remind me of Hebrew, but there is something of Greek there too. I feel my wife tugging nervously at my elbow. I pull away, irritated. There is something hypnotic about the sewing machine. I feel a sudden need to caress the needle, to feel the silvery smoothness of the bobbin. From out of the corner of my eye, I see my wife growing frantic. An attendant approaches from the distance, smiling. He is almost here now. I tense, waiting for his arrival. A strange thrill runs through my body. Paduka!, my wife screams. I turn to look at her, and she pulls me away from the machine. Don't look at the new machines, I hear my mother saying, and I understand that I should not.

We pause by an old, old, machine that sits on an ornately carved wooden table. It is black, one of the very early Singer models. This is the machine we must buy, a voice says, and we agree. The machine is right next to a cash desk. We walk to the sales clerk. She is speaking a mixture of Gujarati and Dutch. Not Dutch, I suddenly realise, Afrikaans. Three thousand nine hundred rupees, she says. I fumble for my wallet, but I can only find francs in it. A lot of francs, enough to buy a small chateau in the Loire valley. But no rupees. My mother shakes her head. My wife laughs. I do not understand why I have francs. I have never been to France. And anyway, they don't even use francs there. There is something important about this, I sense, but the feeling disappears almost as soon as it starts. My mother pays four thousand, and is handed the change. There is something a little odd about the notes, and as I glance at them I realise that it is Pakistani currency. I try to alert my mother, but she dismisses me with an annoyed look. We're lucky that she let us pay in Indian currency, she says. I want to protest, but my head is swimming.

We walk out of the shop. I am carrying a parcel wrapped in a newspaper covered with Cyrillic print. I frown at the parcel, wondering what it is. The sewing machine, my wife reminds me. She didn't give us the table, I say with sudden panic. We are crossing a wide, busy road at a pedestrian crossing. My wife is looking at me strangely. My mother has vanished. I rummage through the parcel. She didn't give us the motor or the footpedal either, I say, we have to go back. Don't be ridiculous, my wife responds. I don't understand what is ridiculous about what I'm saying, but I let it go. Only three thousand nine hundred. Cheap, anyway., I say. My wife shakes her head. Expensive. Cheap, I insist, but my arguments have slipped away. Cheap, I say again, vaguely, but I no longer remember what we were talking about. In the background, I hear the roar of the surf on the shore.

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