The Dreaming.
I'm running with N. across an unknown university campus. The mob does not specifically pursue us, but if they catch us, the results may not be good. They dress as clowns and revelers. Their Fool-King dresses like a parody of a High Church bishop. They bear him on a sedan chair. They love to celebrate, but specifically hate, for some reason, Christmas. Maybe they're the ones about whom Bill O'Reilly and perturbed Christians everywhere have been complaining.
They take possession of the varsity stadium and throw a bacchanalia. Then terrorists attack.
I shouldn't kid. I feel genuine terror. A madman, or at least a very angry one, hijacks a plane and sends it downward into the stadium. Then the scene replays, only someone else is behind the attack, and they send it into a hospital. The third time, it's al-Qaeda, all right, and they plummet the plane into, specifically, a Jewish hospital.
But I'm in my twenties again, and lonely. Music from another era plays. I look through Facebook, but it's a retro-version that never existed, a literal book you sign out from the library. I turn the pages and read profiles in printed text. I pass several beautiful people of both sexes before one catches my eye. She's not conventionally beautiful (A little heavy. Geek girl glasses. Eighties hair), the woman who stares with longing from the page. I want, in the past era, to love her.
Before I reconcile my feelings with the life I have, in fact, led since then, I'm working for unknown agencies, leading several original members of The Wailers and other aging reggae stars through a supermarket to the stage where they will perform.
We a check de price in aisle three, man.