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Dreams of Absurdity

Flying fish everywhere.  Not the kind that leave the water gracefully, landing back in their habitat with grace. Not the Alaskan salmon jumping upstream, dodging the eager claws of a Grizzly.  No these fish fly, with wings feverishly flapping like the hummingbird.  They pass me by as I trek down a snowy hill.  Footprints left in the soft snow.  I slip and fall. I end up in a chair, an editor for World Ttraveler invited me in.  Is this even a real magazine?  I'm escorted into a room, where a woman sits.  She looks like Alanis Morissette with hair cascading down her shoulders. She moves much faster than a normal woman, much like someone in a constant state of fast forwards.  The room is bright and she asks me how I enjoyed Rome?  The Coliseum is present in a photo framed above her.  I tell her tales of gladiator fights and nighttime excursions to Venice.  The fish reappear, but she is oblivious. The fish are there to enhance my story.  I tell of Venice and the sharks that live under the city, she smiles, admitting she's seen them many times.  "Cage diving is big in Venice," she exclaims.  I look at her desk. A baseball is signed in a case.  I can't make out the names scribbled on it, but they soon turn into bugs.  Odd bugs, with crazy shapes and sizes running around the ball like those guys on motorcycles in the steal ball you see at the circus.  I feel like I'm in some sort of wacky drug-induced weekend in Vegas with Hunter S. Thompson.  The fish are frightened by the bugs and flee.  The woman disappears and I'm left alone and the bugs start to multiply.  I start to feel uncomfortable. I shake off the melatonin induced trance I'm in and sit up.  It is dark, all but for the green glow, flashing  at my side. I reach for my phone. 3:36am

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