The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.
I met a girl. She was big — tall, taller than I, and voluptuous.
(With a huge, round pussy.)
Unfortunately for me, she was homosexual/homoflexible.
(She was using deliberately obscurant metaphors, so I couldn't figure out which.)
In either case, her attraction to the opposite sex was marginal and her attraction to me nonexistent.
* * *
This dream was incredibly short. It lasted fifteen seconds at most.
My mother and I were standing at our kitchen window, looking outside. That's when we saw a homeless man cut across our front yard. He resembled a young(er) Harry Dean Stanton, wore a red-&-white baseball cap over longish hair, and was pushing a shopping cart, goose-stepping all the while. She and I exchanged glances; she was mortified/bewildered by this man's presence and desperately wanted to know who he was. Then we both turned to the living room. The man was suddenly there; he goose-stepped across her bed, air-gripping the handles of the shopping cart he no longer had.
* * *
I bought/received/found a copy of The Alan Parsons Project's Tales of Mystery and Imagination on vinyl.
It was a deluxe edition which included three records.
* * *
The following's a fragment of a larger dream I no longer remember.
I was in a buffet, helping myself to eight slices of toasted French bread — four with just butter, four with dark plum jam. Beside me in the line was a young Dina Meyer.
She let me grab her sweet can.
