He Dreams in Colour, He Dreams in Red

There must be something in the water here in Grande Cache–because last night, I had a fucked up dream involving, at various points…

  • Miragh
  • Miragh convincing me to buy myself a ring, which ended up being an olive-coloured button (to match my olive-coloured skin…)
  • Spending $235 on said ring
  • Sanchika (HLP Paul is dying right now…and speaking of HLP Paul…)
  • HLP Paul
  • Old Trafford
  • Euston Station…which I needed to get to in order to get to Old Trafford, even though Euston Station is in London and Old Trafford is, well, not
  • Margaret Greenberg, and possibly a member of her Scottish entourage
  • My cousin
  • A fleet of old Air Canada Lockheed 10/11 aircraft being scrapped (I told you this was fucked up!)
  • A woman yelling “housekeeping!”

Alright, so the last one is what snapped me out of it–but up until then, I was genuinely enjoying myself. I’ve never done acid, but I’m willing to wager that, should I ever decide to do so, the results might look an awful lot like last night.

As you were.


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