Last night — another horrible dream. I was riding in the passenger car of an old-fashioned railroad and there was this big puffy guy, a smaller version of Oliver Hardy, who was brandishing a pistol. He was about to take hostages and shoot us folks. I grabbed his gun arm and wrestled him to the floor, but he was mighty strong. I called out to the other passengers, "Help me!" Eventually, a couple of people came to my aid and started to twist his arm. Then I yelled out, "Hit him!" and a couple of people started to bang his head with books. Heavy books. Then I shouted "Kick him!" and a crowd gathered and started in with their feet. After a while, I realized that the gangster/terrorist/kidnapper was dead, but I continued to punch to and kick him. I woke up with my heart beating 180 or so.
It took a while to regain my equanimity, but it wasn't long before I returned to sleep. I dreamed that I was reporting the dream to my daughter and son-in-law and that they were totally uninterested and bored by my story. Which I took to be a critique of my ability with narrative.
So if I tell any more dreams, I'll abbreviate (as I did above, where I left out all sorts of interesting details) for fear of alienating my audience.
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