No one talks about dreaming, because they are convinced that it is boring. The talking about, not the dreaming about. I don't like to talk about my dreams because they are clumsy. Or so I've been told. They lack the sophistication of other animal's dreams. There are only simple plot points, voice over narration, cheap costuming, fake hair.
I ate a dinner in the future where everything moved faster, even gravy. There was no doubt or time to doubt. Styrofoam bricks rolled out of grey warehouses with the new winds. The people gathered as many as they could carry and more.
They encouraged me to inflate my belly with air, to seem more imposing. It was a parlor trick, but in dim light it worked fine.
My tail traced a surprising line in the humid underground.
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