dreamstate of silence

The other day I wished for leafdreams back, and since then I've had vivid dreams which I've remembered almost every morning. There is no solace in the memories of these near-lucid bloodbaths. Some nights I am chased by ruthless bands of assassins. Two nights I've been back at my father's house, more realistic in its details than my cube at work in the waking world.

The other night I was there, petting my first two cats. I said to my dad, "I was two when we got Dora-- that means she's 27 now!" He nodded and agreed, but she didn't seem as though she felt particularly old. She rolled onto her back and I rubbed her belly, which was dark in the dream, but white in life.

Last night I planned and executed a plot to kill fifty guards and escape the prison camp in which I and about a dozen other people were trapped. At the end of the dream, as with the cars-running-into-the-house dream of the other night, it was utterly silent and empty.