Dream: Flying to Florida on Delta Airlines from a 1950’s-era airport. At first I put my shoulder bag to be checked. A gate agent tells us to “follow the lights” on the floor that direct us down the boarding ramp. Suddenly a realize I want to carry my bag on. In the process, I end up outside and have to board the plane through the cargo door.

The flight takes me to Chicago. I walk empty streets without my bag, but repeatedly look for it on my shoulder and convince myself that it’s there.

I get to an warehouse that is empty except for toxic waste drums and guys playing basketball. I realize I am assigned to help the poor.

A man who is apparently in charge of the program asks me, “What do you hear?” I say something lame like “lost potential.” He explains it is the sound of dinosaurs in a movie he liked.

As we walked up the street it gets dark, and we see fireworks in outer space. We chat about it and decide the Chicago Tribune is advertising from orbit.

We enter a bar, where I got into a phone booth to find my bag. My journey is over. End of dream.