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It is of note that most of my dreams lately seem to reflect some sort of inner turmoil. Which is odd, because my life has been so boring these past few months that I have resorted to freak tactics to entertain myself.

I'm walking through a grocery store. It's not very big and it's kinda dark. As I walk down an aisle I start tripping over various items in the middle of the aisle. (One thing I hate about dreams is how my brain never reacts like in real life i.e., I could have walked around these items).

I started to get frustrated because boxes of Honey Combs started piling up in front of me, blocking my way. I broke through the wall and then all of a sudden I'm in an airport

I'm sitting down, waiting for a plane to come. The airport looks very retro. The stewardesses look like they're straight out of the sixties, with hair that makes they're head look twice the size it really is and pink uniforms.

I look around. Nobody else is dressed like they're in the sixties, in fact, everybody is dressed really modern. I see a mom with her baby. I see a business man and for some reason he has yellow eyes. I look to my right and sitting right beside me is my dad. He's reading the paper. I look straight at him and stare. He looks at me briefly then goes back to the paper. I put my hand on his shoulder. He grabs my hand and starts yelling at me, "What are you doing?!? Who are you?!?"

"What do you mean 'Who am I'? I'm your son!"

He looks at me in disgust. Then he does something weird. He kisses me on the cheek. The he leaves into the tunnel that leads to the plane

Dream Over

A Dream of Half Naked Men Dancing Deep Inside a Mountain, Waist Deep In Blood and Rose Petals

I approach a small, stupa-like building. Its stones dry and cold. The snowy wind swirls around me, scratching my face and bringing with it a deep and biting cold. I approach the building. Are there drums somewhere? I'm unsure of whether I hear music or my own heartbeat.

There's a faint reddish glow, flickering like firelight from within the hillside. A glow stinking of sweet roses, almost the smell of decay, almost the smell of sex. I step forward into the light and begin a descent down a flight of small, rounded stone steps. The light doesn't help me to see, and I stumble and slip on the stairs. I'm sure that someone must be drumming now. Each beat of the drums bringing a swell of emotion and red and purple and light and warmth, growing more forceful, like a wave sweeping closer and closer and stronger and stronger as the tide comes in on the beach.

Now the drums and the red and the purple and the warmth linger after each drumbeat, sticking in the hot, humid air until each wave is nearly indistinguishable from the next. I hear people splashing in something thicker than water. I come into a chamber, the heat is nearly unbearable. I see dozens of men, naked or with blood-soaked lungis hanging heavily from them. They are trudging through a circular pool of blood made thick with crushed and trampled rose petals, which are poured in from buckets by naked young girls. The blood is supplied by stone sluices in the walls, from which it trickles constantly and sometimes gushes. I can see no drummer, but the thundering of the drums makes my heart stop. How long have they been here? How long have they been pushing their way through the ever thickening sludge and the stench, making this strange circle around the small and hideous little figure in the middle of the room?

I hope never to know what that little figure is.

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