Last night I dreamt of a house full of obstacle courses and a small commode hidden beneath the stair. The owner was a bustling old hippy man who insisted on tea and cookies agains the cold. I ate and left.

I was captured on the front porch and drafted into a troop support group, which was weeded and thinned through a series of tests. One such test was to paint a lifelike representation of a particular soldier without any reference material. My painting began well enough but as it neared completion someone bumped the table which spilt a jar of dark blue ink over my painting, casting it all into a cobalt shadow.

The surveyor walked down our rows of tables, ejecting the failures for death and delivering instructions for the next challenge to those left over. She arrived at mine and as I tried to explain, the words a mush of failed vowels and consonants piled atop each other, she motioned for my ejection. Two men grabbed me from behind, ripped me from my seat and threw me into a pitch black room.

Sweet dreams.


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