I am living in Chicago in one of two labyrinthian homes that my brain always places me in when dreaming. It is the slightly less labyrinthian home. It is at night, I hear a knock at my door. It is a musician with I have a somewhat terse relationship with five other people. One of which I do not like in the slightest. They are in need of a place to crash for the evening. I let them, but ask why they didn't call. I am not given an answer. They mill about in the living room. I tell them they have to sleep on the floor and I don't have any extra pillows. I go back into my room. There's a door from my room that leads to a hall that leads to my roommate's room and also to a large hall in the basement of the building, which connects various buildings in the neighborhood. I first walk towards my roommate's room. There's a bathroom in the hall. I walk in and shit. After finishing, I walk towards the large hall. The large hall is somewhat bustling, given the time of night. I see toilets strewn about. I look in one -- there are cooked potstickers inside. They look appealing. I walk down the hall and pull down my pants for reasons unknown to me. I pass by a stand selling cookies. I wonder what a black and white cookie tastes like and the vendors give me strange stares, since my pants are around my ankles. I pull them up and walk back to the main atrium of the hall. I see three people that look like public shooters. They are loading guns with magazines. I ignore them and walk back up to my apartment. The band that I'm housing is practicing. I tell them to stop. I apparently sleep and the next morning, the band is outside of my building. I see one of the people who was with the group. I light a cigarette and they begin talking to me. They put on an air of feigned interest, "Are you still working at that restaurant?" I tell them I haven't worked there for 17 years. "Are you still having problems with your dad?" I tell them my dad hasn't been alive in 24 years. Everyone begins to ask me for a cigarette. I give them all one. They begin to leave and I overhear one of them say that if they knew that it was me who was living at this home they wouldn't have asked. They don't say bye. They don't extend their gratitude for letting them stay without notice. As I walk back to my front door, I see an androgynous person with their partner and playing with their dog. I confuse them with my good friend Mark and call out for him. The person turns around and is Asian -- Mark is a white guy. I apologize for confusing them with someone else and the person says, "How do you get me mixed up with a white guy?" How do they know Mark is white?

3/31/2025 --

I looked down and my legs were covered in tattoos.

3/25/2025 --

I am in the backyard of my mom's house, which is now on a different country road than the one on which she lives. Her housemate is Jon Lovitz. In the backyard a stage is set up. Many dogs from my past are alive again (a recurring theme in many of my dreams) and have constructed a stage. They perform a relatively accurate rendition of Romeo & Juliet. My mom tells me that her current dog has cancer. I watch the dog in question begin to rot in front of my own eyes in the backyard. My dog growing up, Buster, casts a magic spell that reverses the effects of the cancer, at the cost of his being. He will not only die after the spell is cast, but all memories of him will cease to disappear. The effects of the spell are dramatic -- it bathes the entire world in a shimmering light. Afterwards, I still remember him. No one else does -- not my mom, not Jon Lovitz. I watch the rotting dog rot in reverse, becoming healthy again. I then go and watch the dogs play in the front yard, which I find perilously small and close to the road. Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 plays.

3/24/2025 --

I awoke to find myself in the midst of some sort of apocalyptic scenario -- what the cause was is not terribly important for my brain. I was at an emergency shelter at my old high school, though the scope of it had changed. It now consisted of hundreds of long halls (instead of the two that it generally consisted of). Survivors of this apocalyptic scenario are lined up in these hallways with little partitions dividing up their "rooms". Although I was 17, I had maintained all of the experiences of being a middle-aged man. A teenage girl befriends me and apparently we strike up a relationship. An acquaintance from my childhood tells me that she's "no good" and invites me back to his little partition. He digs through a box of trinkets and finds an amulet that serves as "proof". I am confused and an unconvinced. I return to my girlfriend's partition and her behavior becomes increasingly erratic -- she becomes paranoid that I am abusing drugs (I am) and paranoid that I am sleeping with someone else (I am not). I ignore her and retire to my own partition. She enters and begins screaming at me, foaming at the mouth, screaming, "It is the end of the world and the end of your world." She stabs me.

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