Despite being tired as fuck from another pathetic run earlier in the evening and unable to sleep I think, from the Dew I drank with the wholly unscientific purpose of stimulating my recovery, I woke up an hour and a half before my first meeting after a dream that a tall Black woman and skinny teenager with two handguns had home-invaded us. They weren’t particularly cautious criminals, unmasked and allowing us to move about to bring them their spoils while the former danced and her partner sat with his back to us. There were lamps and things we don’t own that I might’ve taken to his head, but would it have been enough to incapacitate him, or could I take the chance he hadn’t transferred his weapons to her without my knowledge? I continued to consider the possibilities during my transition, when even my strength and will didn’t seem sufficient to go at him with an easily-obtained knife from the kitchen.
Later that evening I’d read the synopsis of Bob Odenkirk’s new film—or did I re-read it, and subconsciously schedule my dream as a preview or reminder?
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