I remember so little of last night's dream that I almost didn't write it, but it keeps flitting about in my brain as though something about it is meaningful, so . . .
I was in a wildly hilly Olympia, where a mall was dug into a hillside, spiraling down like the one in Miraflores behind the pleasant, open, rainy façade of brick buildings and wide streets atop steep slopes. I wandered all over this town, talking to various people, as though on some search. I went into a warehouse where some kind of event was. I encountered people from my past, again vague acquaintances from high school. At the mall, I ran into my old friend Cori with her mother. I was, of course, nervous and shy, but for some reason couldn't stop talking with her, and it seemed she was under the same spell. So we talked on and on and on. In the back of my head, I figured that this was because she was an Aquarius.
At one point, a massive rocket fired into the sky, loud and strangely slow, but raging. I looked up gleefully, expecting it to be a space shuttle, but found instead that it was a jet carting bombs and bombs and bombs to some distant war zone. I called it something under my breath, and Cori and her mother were shocked, thinking I'd called it something else, some word that only military generally use for such things. Cori had been involved in the military, I remembered.
Things happened. Who knows. I wound up outside of some rather large pseudo-mansion, out near the gates of a vast, rolling, green estate. Sitting on the ground with other people, none of whom associated with the property, Ian and I were shown a bag containing two newborn kittens. Ian pulled them out gingerly, and handed them to me so that I could touch them as well. They were so small and sleek and squirmy, blind and kind of seal-like in my hands. Ian was going on and on about them, about their relationship with human fetuses or something along those lines. He was treating them like magical charms or symbols or some esoteric thing. They were so very little.
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