I carry my dream with me all day, as something I've noted in my mind that I must tell people. When I go to speak, though, the images are unformed. It's just a feeling.

Like the list in your head of things to tell friends that you try to remember while they're recounting their stories. Sometimes when it's your turn to speak the list isn't there anymore.

As I stand shivering at the garage door there's a square terracotta tunnel and at the end stars.

Last night, though, a blonde woman plagued me, trying to steal my wallet out of the Liberty print bag. Her accomplice abducted us back to his farm. As we tried to escape and it looked like he would catch us, Noonie attempted to shoot him. Each time she fired there was silence and the gun had no bullets.