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My listening myself to sleep thing is yielding up some interesting stuff. The audio on this is pretty damn annoyingly weird, which I don't think Greg could help, or could have but was having too good a time to notice. Whatever. It's fine if your hearing is okay and you're not trying to listen from across the room.
I seem to have erased Mike Clelland from this and inserted Walter Bosley, who is an old friend of Greg Bishop's, for dreaming purposes, because there were only three of us in the dream: Walter, Greg and me. Walter had gotten himself an industrial loft, from his recent successes getting his books sold to tv. It wasn't at all swanky yet, but it was promising for an old bachelor with high nerdy tendencies.
He was somehow being ultra-solicitous by me while Greg was busy chattering with someone on his laptop. No, no, he and Greg would be fine on the couches in the living room. I could have the bedroom to myself. Skittering off to the kitchen for hostly treats and very high amicability from him was wafting over me, just exactly as though he seriously and irrevocably wanted me as a full third of their puzzle.
Greg, of course, was pretty much ignoring us, but also sending out these amicability waves. Despite all the talking that was going on in this dream, there was no language in it beyond Walter on the matter of virtuous sleeping arrangements. We just moved between rooms of the loft and solved the problem of sleeping arrangements by pushing two California kingsized beds together so everybody could have enough acreage for sleeping. I know this because that is where the three of us were, in our PJs, when I woke up.
Absolutely not even one whiff of anything remotely sexual about it. Pure amity.
It was in some wise the same as the dream about the charlatan cult a couple days ago, only there was no thrust, thrusted or unthrusted, about saving sentient beings from bad guys. Simply completely unruffled harmony in Walter's industrial loft that is located in a city too good for meatspace.
pipe up any time....
