I was on a
space station -- at least, I think it was a space station; I don't remember any curviture, or any stars outside, and it was all very scenic (a forest, a semi-wilderness, blues and greens; the roof was invisible, probably 500 feet above at least), but I know it was a
torus, the end connected to the beginning.
The space station was owned by a record company. I had bought a package deal -- I got a bunch of records and a chicken (live). I was to get from one side of the station to the other subsisting only on the chicken. It was a learn-to-make-your-own-way thing.
There was a post office where all the employees weren't wearing any pants -- something to do with being able to sort the mail properly.
Oh, and I had a conversation in a building (a store, I think) after walking for awhile. It was with a cool indy guy. The sampling of records the company had given me eclectic, with Indy Creds from various genres (the only one I'd heard in real life was Pinkerton); I was concerned he'd think I was a poser.
I fished out a 3 LP box set from an obscure late-'80s-early-'90s act (the cover art and liner notes were great, '70s-ish without being cheezy -- it looked like someting you'd come across at age thirteen in your friend's older brother's room) and he offered to buy it (I didn't have any money on me as per the subsisting-on-the-chicken thing).
Me: So, 17 dollars, then
Him: Yeah. Oh, and some amphetamines, of course.
Me: Uh. I don't have any amphetamines.
Him (slightly surprised): Oh. Okay.
That was a few days ago. Last night I dreamed I was reading a dream logs (something I hadn't actually done before). I don't remember much of it. Tons of characters, tons of scenes, a bizarre (but cool and fun) looping thought process. Apparenltly, it was all in the 1920s.