More undated dreams. I’m pretty sure these are either before school started back up in August 1993 or shortly thereafter. I’m only giving you the highlights, minimal as they may be.

Asterisks separate dreams from different nights.

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I was on a balcony overlooking a lunchroom. I saw Kadon (in red), so I ran up to greet him. when I got down there, he was gone. Tom, Zach, and Doug told me he left and that I wasn’t hallucinating. I went off in search of him. I ended up with a booth in a supermarket selling earrings. A four-year-old boy said, “These aren’t the same beads you were selling last week.” I began to thrash the blond child. A small crowd formed including Scott S. I asked, “Can I get some food here?” Suddenly I was brought three baked potatoes along with other foods. Scott invited me in his house. There were newspapers everywhere. I looked for the lucky powerball numbers Kadon inspired. I don’t understand it either. All I remember was the #90.

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In a snow-covered forest, I and two companions ventured on a sidewalk. I was wearing a pristine white fur coat. I looked to my left and saw a cluster of tapirs. We eased down the stairs. Several tapirs looked up. One emerged as the leader: the alpha tapir. He put his hoof down and I tried to defy him by stepping forward. After that, I only remember my scratched and bloody face. I ran to some building, past Mrs. Davis blaming me for my disfigurement. I ran into Chris J and asked if he knew where my mother was. He said nothing about my bleeding; he merely pointed over his shoulder. I ran to the bathroom and began to clean my wounds.

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I was on a farm and Jason lived across from me. One day, his house was smoking and I saw a few flames. Thinking nothing odd, I left for somewhere.

Erika and I were walking on a strange street. We went to a Dairy Queen. There was a vending machine which sold “Rockasaurus Pink.”

Then I was in a library with the Kronmiller twins. A sliding glass window opened and Kris K appeared. In order to hide from him, I shoved my face into Jeremy’s arm. I went unnoticed.

I snapped out of the “library dream” and found myself surrounded by angry white people. They had seen my dream, only they thought I hid my face in a black guy’s arm. I had to run again, away from the KKK. I hid behind a black guy.

I retold the dream to my mother. She said, “Kris is coming to the light from the dark. He’s so corrupted you can’t help him.”

I then made it to my new school where we needed a play to put on. I tried to tell them my dream, but I couldn’t get the words out.

I then went home to the farm. When I returned, a pick-up’s headlights were flaming. A man yelled for Jason to bring some water. I went home and looked out my window. The fire was out. Then the man came over to me and screamed, “Jason’s dead.”

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Jason and I were alone in a room. He said he needed to run some errands. I was obligated to watch his one-year-old child. The child was bald and of walking age. It had a feather. I did not have to take care of the brat if the feather was missing. I had the feeling that months had passed. This brat had been crawling all over me like a demon. One day, while in a public bathroom, the green feather fell on the dirty floor. I was not about to pick it up, especially since I got glittery lip gloss all over my hands from turning on the water faucet. The kid came out and said, “I lost my feather.” I ran out. The scene before my eyes was an Americanized view of Germany. Signs screamed “ausgang” [exit] surrounded by moving lights. I turned down the sidewalk and was in London. Heather S was sitting in the middle of the street. She was wearing knickers and a brownish white shirt (straight out of a novel Charles Dickens never wrote about a tomboy). She stopped playing jacks to talk to me. “God, these guys must have grown up on Junior Great Books or something. They’re all underlining and highlightin’.” I looked back and Katie was dressed in a mix of Ivana Trump and Anne of Green Gables.

I was in an auditorium watching a play. A “famous” drama critic was sitting in the back. I went up to him and asked him who he thought was the best neo-classicist dramatist. I mentioned something about Henrik Ibsen.