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Thursday, February 10, 2005

This Could Be The Night

I had a strange, semi-lucid dream last night.

In the dream, I was walking down the street of a run-down tenement neighborhood as the sun was going down. It could have been New York. I remember thinking to myself (in the dream) that I should be nervous, because I was in a bad part of town and it was getting dark, but I felt relatively confident and secure that nothing would happen to me.

As I passed the obligatory abandoned cars and broken bottles, I saw a figure leaning against a light pole just ahead of me. He was wearing a hat and a dark suit, his face obscured from view, as he was carefully carving some wood with a knife.

As I approached him, he stopped working and looked up at me. He was a cool-looking guy, but he had a strange expression on his face--I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Impossible to guess his age, he had a goatee and rough-looking hands.

"I'm gonna whittle you into kindling," he said under his breath. It sounded like a train wreck in slow-motion.

I walked on, hurriedly. As I walked, I began to get nervous. I stuck my hands in my pockets and looked down, hoping to avoid any further conflict.

Suddenly, Pablo Picasso ran across the street and began walking alongside me. He was a short little bald guy, about five foot three, and he struggled to keep up with my longer strides.

"Hey-a! You there!" he chirped at me. I ignored him. He would have been comical if I wasn't alone in such an uncomfortable situation.

"Hey-a! I'm-a talking to you!" I kept walking, not looking at him after my initial shock. He stopped to speak.

"I'm-a gonna break you up into teeny leetle cubes!" he screeched. "Tiny leetle cubes!" I kept walking, leaving him behind.

"TINY LEETLE CUBES!" He yelled, frustrated.

I turned around.

"Hey, shutup." I paused for a minute. "Asshole." I don't think he heard me.

Then I walked away. A minute later, I passed some attractive young ladies. I tried to give them the eye, hoping they'd notice me and be down to party. They resisted my stare.

"Asshole," I heard the blonde one mutter.

As I neared the edge of the neighborhood, a car came roaring up. It was an Cadillac El Dorado. The car stopped next to me. I looked inside. It was Pablo Picasso and the two attractive girls.

"Hey-a! Asshole!" Pablo Picasso said to me. He had a strange, slightly hypnotic look in his eyes.

"Yeah! Hey, asshole!" said the girls. I frowned. The car drove off, lurching forward with a roar.

'Some people try to pick up girls and get called asshole,' I thought. 'I guess that never happens to Pablo Picasso.'


Blogger Lan D. Ho! said...

Don't think that I didn't get all your tricky references! In fact--that such references pepper your dream lead me to suspect that your dream was in reality no dream at all!

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Blogger Lan D. Ho! said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

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