Only what I take with me ...

I dreamt last night that I was on a boat, but not a real boat – the kind of floating car found in the ‘70s Hanna-Barbera TV ride at King’s Island. Everything was pretty cool, except when we approached an ominous door. It seemed to be set back in swamp or some other secluded corner. It was a place of looming evil; I had just talked extensively with a 9-year-old about Star Wars, so maybe it was the duality cave on Dagoba. Hell if I know. I think I remember some visage of a wet ghost child, a la Ringu, popping into my peripheral view just as fright jolted me from sleep.

This happened at least 10 times over the course of evening. The dream would change a bit – in one sequence some wrestling T Rexes ran up and grabbed children off this amusement park tram I was riding with Clint Eastwood. I think Mr. Eastwood was directing some film to which much of the surreal landscape could be attributed. A purple whale jumped from the sandy landscape and breached right on the tram, but I never woke from these calamities. Only that swampy door creeped me out that bad.

Each time I woke, I was sitting up in bed starring at the door to my little-used office in the corner of my bedroom.

I gotta turn off the TV at night.