Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Computer School-Kelong

I start the dream in a kind tertiary institution, an admin area. There are shelves in the background but a level up. A student stands by the shelf looking at open book in his hand, flipping a page. I am standing in front of a circular counter, an information desk. It is littered with files and folders. A neglected pot of artificial flowers sits at one end. The scene reminds of a student admin counter of a local foreign uni. Monash, I think.

A few paces away from where I stand, some students are sitting in front of computers accessing the Internet. One comes over and asks me about a change in her schedule. I say "Fine" and she returns to her place, happy.

I worry about a hacker's module I'm about to introduce. Will it attract students. How much skill should I impart? To hacking a phone or computer? I reason that hacking is not about breaking into secured devices; it's about the fine art of programming.

In the next scene, I am talking with Carmen. She is wondering what computer course she should take. She's trying to do something that will help in her work. I offer some comments and asks what sort of work she is doing or hope to advance to next. We talk and continue to look at some brochures.

Carmen's mom appear next. She is deciding what to cook. We are in a wet market and looking at a few yong tau foo items on a large stainless steel tray. The items seem to have been pre-fried. I'm OK with her choices as I happen to like tau foo. Or more precisely, tau kua.

On the dining table, a pizza is served. It is large, almost twice the normal size. On it is sprinkled generously tau kua bits mixed with minced pork. It's as if a tau kua pau has been chopped up and used as pizza topping. In any case, I seem to approve. Someone stands from his seat and sprinkles tobasco sauce all over the pizza.

Prawns, we must have prawns. I am at an off-shore prawn farm looking at how the critters are raised. They are as big as lobsters with two long spiny claws. They remind me of those found in Butterworth, Malaysia. Carmen's mom is there to show me around. She's the owner.

I enter a room and some colleagues from a factory are there. They are busy enjoying karaoke. A Grasshopper band plays. Jessy, a Grasshopper fan, approaches me and says, "Huh? Why like that want?" I look to where she is pointing. There are grasshoppers in the fishing nets. They kinda look like prawns.

Birds fly down and feast on those grasshoppers. We catch one and had it is steamed with cut red chilli. It's always freshest at the kelong! It looks like a black chicken, and is cooked in familial herbal sauce.

After the meal, I sit by the edge of what is now a kelong and enjoy the sunset. I fall asleep and wake.

Cause and effect:

Saturday, 25 August 2012

Up and Down A Hill

The scene is a large slash of track that has been bulldozed through a verdant jungle. The track is uneven, scrawled into uneven rivulets by rain and water. Nonetheless, we endeavour to make our way up to the top.

The top of the slope ends abruptly in a mess of creepers. We clear it to reveal a hole. A borehole that's big enough to swallow a small elephant.

I stumble to the edge and falls in.

I emerge wedged in-between two tables. My chest is pinned and I cannot move my arms. On the table in front of me is a plate of roast pork. The skin looks crispy and inviting. Thus taunted, I try to wriggle free. It is useless. The pork remains out of reach.

Someone behind me pulls at my hair with a pair of chopsticks. I see myself eating some black seaweed. Am I the main course? Hmm....

The table is pulled apart. I fall and is tossed into a car. Am I kidnapped? 

The car careens about as if to escape a pursuer. Or police. I cannot be sure. It crashes into a barrier and onto a racetrack. A Mercedes safety car rolls to avoid crashing into us. We are in the middle of an F1 race. The drivers all looked stunned. I try to sit up and manage to catch a glimpse of Sebastian Vettel. he gives me the thumbs up. I take that as cue and kicks the car door open. Like James Bond, I roll myself out and ricochet on the road like a stone skimming a pond. I then crash into a hoarding that says: "A seat belt. Even the best wears them." Sebastian Vettel holds his up with one hand and gives his thumbs up with the other.

I remember saying, "Yeah, too late."

Someone is trying to squeeze me into a can like some Jack-in-the-Box. I try to resist but the pressure is great. My legs give way and crack and crumble below me. I don't feel pain. Somehow, I expect that to happen. The next thing I know, I'm on my knees on a large skateboard careening down a mountain slope.
Vettel is next to me and so is David Coultard. Both have crazy expressions on their faces. What are they high on? Adderall?

Someone shouts "Olympic gold!" and all three of us try to win the race.

Para-Olympic glory comes to mind and in that moment, I fly off the side of a cliff as we approach a bend. I grab my board as if doing a skateboard off-ram ollie. I land inside a dark tunnel and swings around inside. I then fly out into daylight again and lands. The rivulet-surface catches my board and I roll and tumble away. I slam into a tree and sends a nesting flock of parrots flying away. "Asshole, asshole, they say." I wake.

Cause and effect:

Wednesday, 22 August 2012

A Strange Race

I am shopping with a girlfriend and child. We have been looking for something, a toy most likely. I am tired and decides to look for a place to sit down.

I find a nice Spanish-style wooden table and rests my head on it.

I sense someone walking towards me and open my eyes, head still down. A woman in a green leotard is standing next to me. It is one of muted color, not the sort that's stretchy and bright. She has long curvy legs and a slight poochie tummy. Can it be Cheryl? I had taught her tennis many years ago and she has always considered me her 'sifu'. But she's one clingy friend and so I kept my distance.

I wait a while and hope she goes away; she doesn't.

I get up and try to put on a smile. "Hey Cheryl!" I exclaimed. She smiles. The next thing I know, I am waking up from another table. A dining one in her apartment.

A fancy dinner is going on with her, her husband Guna and some friends. A large silver fruit bowl catches my eye. Guna has just gotten his food and is settling into his seat at the table. I can tell he's having some sort of lemony custard dessert.

Cheryl calls. I get up to go fetch my food. The house looks positively expensive with pink marble tiles, etc. It has a bit of a Grecian-look about it. The kitchen has a cutaway and I approach it.

Two dogs come bouncing along. I hold my hand out for them to sniff as is the proper way to greet a dog. I then notice that their fur is like wool. They are blue and purple with twirls of yellow and red. It reminds me of the Wobbles, characters from a children's program; odd but beautiful all the same. The dogs are very friendly and licks me non-stop.

I wonder about the girlfriend in the mall. I should call her and let her know that I am safe. But I am enjoying the dogs and decides to postpone the call till later.

Cheryl tells the dogs to calm down. I get my food and  return to the table. Guna is speaking. "You have to join us, TC..." And with that, I am now in the next scene.

Guna is all togged up in his winter gear. We're in some sort of  snow-covered avenue between warehouse buildings. His pal is tuning up their racing sleighs. The sleighs look like they belonged to Santa but are huge and tall as a farm tractor. His pal then passes him a pair of googles and teaches him how to put it on. It has a kind of skull-strap.

The two sleighs line up and race off. Strangely, the speed crank is behind and has three speeds. They will have to race with one arm on the steering wheel and the other twisted behind to control the speed crank. Odd.

The sleighs speed down the track and take off on their individual rams, breaking through thin styrofoam walls for effect. Both sleighs land OK and disappear into the distance in a spray of snow.

On their return journey, the sleigh riders are now armed with broad swords. They are slashing at the Christmas decorations and the painted foam pieces are breaking and flying every which way. In the end, they reach the finishing line and Guna wins.

Next, it's my turn to tog up. Guna's pal, an ang-mo, wants to put the helmut on me. I hesitate and tell him I need to pee (which is true). I trudge away to the back of a warehouse, behind some crates to relieve myself. I worry about being seen. A young girl's laughter filters in from somewhere. A glass bottle drops and clatters about. I quickly relief myself and return to the sleighs.

Take the stuff out of your pockets or they are going to fall out, advised Guna.

I'm wearing cargo pants and so reach into my side pockets. There's are a few DVDs (still in their plastic jackets), a few game discs, a paperback book, a chain and pendant, etc. Quite a pile now sit on top of a crate. I am amazed. The last thing I dig out is a handphone. It is a shortened version of my regular phone. I cry out in horror. "Hey, this not my phone, it's Kate's!" I realise now I cannot call my girlfriend in the mall.

Cause and effect: This dream has quite a few recent catalyst elements. Gags for Laughs sketches, an Ericsson P900 phone in a movie, Guna and Cheryl's taste for expensive things - my perception. Their first HDB flat was normal but they paid overly much for its renovation ($90k for a $40k job?). A recent encounter with a toy poodle dog. Some psychedelic batik prints. A new and funny fast-action animated cartoon (that reminded me of Warner Brother's Road Runner and Coyote series), etc, etc.

A Race

It's a flattened jungle. Stripped logs are everywhere. I am racing over a dirt track. I seem to be elevated, as if I'm riding one of those hover bikes from a Star Wars story. It feels like dusk and the weather wet. I seem to have come across the place before NS training in Brunei or Taiwan.

I am now sitting on a bench sofa inside a room; it seems to be a resting place. I am wearing a race suit, white with red disc logos and other signs all over. My collar is unzipped. I seem exhausted and am holding a can drink in one hand and making small talk with a model beside me. A projector screen is showing action at a pit lane.

A red F1 car pulls up. It is picked up and crushed into strip of metal in a quick instant. The metal is dropped into our room, still smoking. It clatters on the floor. Another F1 car suffers the same treatment. Yet another strip of flattened smoking metal. A giant of a man is responsible. He growls with satisfaction at his handiwork.

The race picks up again. This time we race to an airbase. Gleaming rockets stand on the tarmac. We arrive, jump out of our cars and race towards our rocket ships. It feels like a triathlon. I strap myself in and barks orders to the control tower. I am informing them that I am ready for take off.

In a moment, other rocket ships start blasting off, one after another. They look like tiny but fat missiles being popped off the ground.

I am now flying over a forest of fallen trees. Naked timbers lay exposed over one another in a somewhat unnatural fashion. I realise now I am in the same rocket ship as I was in the earlier part of the dream. Where am I heading? Back to that pit action? I wonder. Before I get an answer, I wake.

Cause and Effect:

Friday, 17 August 2012

Getting Ready

I am with a sister I've not seen in a long while. She and I are standing next to a small jet plane. It looks like a novelty with its pointy rod in front and rather fat and short fuselage. She is telling me the construct of the plane. I get the sense that she is trying to tell me that nothing gets built without aforeplanning and thought, and meticulous planning.

I am now with a group of people I think are my secondary school friends but they seem older and appear (by intuition) more like my army buddies. Dreams tend to blur their timelines like that sometimes.

I rush to a hall. A meeting is taking place. We are being briefed on the organisation of an outing for the school. I meet Mr Wilfred James and Mr Tan Hong San, my sec sch principal and NPCC teacher-in-charge (1 of 3) respectively. The hall appears large like an aircraft hangar. We sit in rows of metal chairs. The whole scene reminds me of how aviators are typically briefed in the movies before a mission. I seem to be the student leader in charge.

We are doing a trip by hovercraft boat. There are logistics to prepare. I'm given a list and go through it. I feel confident and exhilarated at the same time. I look out. The sea and sky are clouded but there is a strong wind. I feel encouraged and think what a great adventure!

We are stacking stores to bring in a boat shed. Everything is packed and labelled neatly in a most military fashion. On one side, long green tubular bags containing tentage poles. In another corner, crates painted black. An ex-classmate Ser Yang comes up to me to confirm that the store list is complete and that all is in order.

Night falls, it's the eve of departure. Many of us are asleep in our sleeping bags in a hangar. I am trying to get to sleep but is unable. I get up to take a warm shower hoping that will do the trick. It's one of those half-stalls. As I bathe a sudden bright light shines on me. A huge plane has just parked outside.

The next morning, everybody is at the briefing hangar again. I am late and worry what the teachers might say. They don't say anything and is understanding. Along the way, I meet Mrs De Vaz, who asks me if everything is alright. I smile and reply in the affirmative, and hurry on. 

But it is just a dream, it is still night. Someone comments why I am still in a towel. The voices don't mean anything as I find myself floating up to the ceiling, bobbing to avoid the strong ceiling fans. I am floating as if on water and am surprised the towel holds. I then wake.

Cause and Effect:

Tuesday, 14 August 2012

A Long Party

I am at a cross-junction on my bicycle. It is wide and appears to be on a hill-top. The roads curl downwards into palm oil plantations and villages in the four directions. It's just like the one I've seen before in Johor, Malaysia.

I take the road on my right and follow its descent, free-wheeling. I can see a village centre down below, more so of wooden buildings than concrete. There's red earth all around. Tall coconut trees sway.

I pass the village and arrive at its outskirts. I stop beside a small concrete building of simple '50s design. My ex-colleagues from Thomson are there. There's MH sitting outside at a high table nursing a drink. At the side, in a cloth swing seat is Marc. I enter the building, there's a home theatre to the left. It is dark. I can make out Set and the rest lying down asleep. Amidst them a girl. I think her name is Kris. They must have done an all-nighter karaoke session again.

Noon comes and everybody leaves. We are back at the high cross-junction again. I can see Set and Marc walking along a five-foot way outside some attap shops, talking animatedly. MH is leaving too. He's struggling to carry a mattress off.

I continue to cycle and pass by the vacation house again. I'm hailed by KC, a chap I've yet to feel comfortable with. I think it is because we are quite alike. I accept the offer to sit and drink. We chat. We seem to be talking about the others but it's only idle chatter.

In the next scene, we are at a long water pipe with taps. We are refreshing ourselves and drinking from it. "Maria is here," he says, matter-of-factly.

I get up to go inside the building once more. A bigger party is going on. It appears that the buildings are connected and it is someone's home. I arrive in time to hear the hostess announce the start of a new game. A party goer has accepted the challenge and will try to outrun some dogs. Not just any dogs but a few dozens of fierce, angry dogs. I can see a cartoon graphic showing a bunch of fierce, snapping dogs. The kind of graphic that's color-penciled and set to stop-motion.

The contestant fails miserably and is torn to shreds. Everybody winces, drink in hand. I seem to think it a cruel sport to play at a party where children are present too. A few children are upset and turn to hide their faces. I enquire about the next game but get no answers.

I explore the party a bit and comes to the kitchen. Maria is baking something and tending to her child as well. She asks me this question, "Really, TC. Why did you come to look for me?" I want to tell her the real reason but hold back. I go into the bathroom to dye my hair.

I am now beside a day sofa bed which is also by a wash point. I am trying to rinse my hair out but there's no water. The tap and pipe is loose and needs adjustment. I move the cushions and underlying mattress away to prevent them from getting wet. But the tap, which I can see now is behind the sofa is not cooperating. I leave that and return to be with Maria in the kitchen. She smiles knowingly at me but does not say anything.

I'm outside. The floor is covered with a rust-colored thick metal plate, the sort found outside car-body workshops. A hose with running water lay close by. I pick it up to rinse my hair with. A young man comes by. He is wearing skinny black pants and shiny capped shoes. He hands me a rear view mirror to clean. I notice it has a few tough stains. I run water over it and rub the stains off with my thumbnail. They come off. I hand the mirror back to the young man. He is grateful. All the while, I am squatting and trying to rinse my hair with the hose. I look back. I am indeed in front of some auto yards. Everywhere is rust colored. I look at a blackened glass door and wonder about the party inside. Should I go back in?

Nah, I seem to say, and continue to rinse my hair in the bright sunshine.

An Old Chinese School

I am standing on a footpath beside a tall tour bus near the Golden Mile Food Centre, that place that sells military gear. I board the bus and finds a seat near the back. I look at the seats in front. They are beige and trimmed in yellow. I smile, surprised that such a color scheme works. But mostly, I find myself feeling vulnerable. Stabbed in the back?

I am in an alley, typical of those found in Geylang. I am standing just inside what seems to be the backdoor of a restaurant. Everything is in slow motion. A rather portly guy in one of those ah pek (old man) cotton white shirts, probably the cook, walks in brushing past me. He mutters something. But as it is all in slow-mo, I cannot make out what he is saying. A helper then brushes past me with an aluminium basin. I see that flash of metal clearly.

Wooden tables and chairs are placed in the alley, food is served. The same men now sit and eat, chopsticks moving from dish to mouth, rice to mouth. They talk between mouthfuls. Not far are hung bird cages.

I am in a small field looking at a wall and through a doorway, one of those old ones with a rounded top and wooden door that opens to the back alley. I can still see the men eating.

I seem to be in a compound  of a school. By its architecture, it looks like a Chinese school, the sort with simple lines. The ground floor is a void space filled with tables and benches. A canteen? But the 'stalls' are closed and shuttered. The shutters are the old accordion type, metal and painted silver. From a distance I can see that the shutters are also painted with the Taoist deity images of the God of Heaven and Heaven's Emperor - figures normally found on joss paper and hell money.

I turn and see the other side of the field. It is not smooth. Earth has been churned up, turning the landscape into a series of cracks and gulleys. One false step and an ankle would sprain. It all goes down a mezzanine slope. Two kids, girls, are playing catching on a bald flat patch. A group is approaching; they had climbed through a sorry gap in the chain-link fence that bounds the field. They need help climbing up that broken slope. The group consists of ang mo tourists. The women are mature and all dressed in 50s fashion, including wearing those pointed spectacles. They ask for directions and I tell them.

I am now walking along a shophouse five-foot way. Shopnames in red relief Chinese characters on cream-colored pillars flash past. The place looks old and dated. Light is low; it must be dusk. Again, everything is in slow-mo. I look up. Ahead swing some bird cages. Bird noise mixed with traffic noise into a sort of busy emotion. It's soundless though. With that I wake.

Friday, 10 August 2012

A Christmas Mug

I am dressed in a 30s outfit of pin-striped suit and Panama hat. We have just arrived at a dusty town. Around us are wooden buildings. It feels like a cowboy town. We enter a simple white concrete building. It reminds me of those I've seen in Hengchun, Taiwan - dusty, paint peeling.

We climb the stairs and enter an office, it seems to be having a Christmas party. On a table next to a decorated Christmas tree by the entrance is stacked white mugs printed with a cartoon dancing bear in Santa costume. The bear looks like the mommy bear in Brave, Pixar's recent movie. There are words like 'The World's Greatest Dad'. I am reminded of a mug given by an ex-gf now deceased. The mug she gave me had a cartoon of a loopy girl portrait with the words 'Only Someone Out Of Their Mind Would Fall In With Love You'. I still have that mug.

The cars outside rev. I can tell from the sound that they have been souped up. The sound of superchargers with hundreds of angry horses reined inside. I finish a fruit punch and return to the car.

We drive through a city, streaks of orange and red lights (like some timelapsed night photo) weave in and out in front. The whole place is bathed in out-of-focus neon light. Is this HK? Taipei? A scene from Inception? I can't say.

I am on a ship and travelling. I lift a lid and emerge topside by a gangway. The weather is bright and clear and the wind is strong, caused in part by the boat's high speed. A sandy island looms, we slow down. Someone is putting finishing touches to a sand sculpture. It's a pair of woman legs in the birthing position. Kids emerge laughing, patting themselves free of sand. One looks like Elijah Wood, the other looks like Martin Freeman. I cannot tell who the third person is. A man nearby is videographing the whole scene.

I am back in the village once more sitting on an upturned bucket in what looks like a car workshop. A car is jacked up three feet up in the air, bonnet opened. And I am wondering why it is taking so long. I then wake up.

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Fugitive in China

In this dream, I am working in China. First as an English language teacher and then a writer at a publishing house.

The scene opens with me by the side of a building looking through a dirty four-paned window. Children on the other side are singing. My heart is heavy as I contemplate leaving town.

There had been a misunderstanding. My place was raided by the police. They were looking for something. I am uneasy and distrust the police and China's judicial system. A TV hangs from a corner in the alley, it is showing someone aiming and firing a gun in a supermarket. Goods on shelves fly off. Did I do that? Questions.

I move on and am now walking. The road is dusty and a truck rumbles by.

I am in an office. I seem to be close to this new girl, an intern. The office has a few desks all arranged in neat rows front-to-back. It's still using CRT computer monitors. By the side a large sliding cupboard. Inside are things that belong to that girl. Each morning, before stepping out, she would put things into her sling bag. There's a notebook and disc. A thing that worries me is the gun. The girl seems to be using the gun to protect herself. She comes across as a revolutionary or government provocateur. The gun is a large one like a Colt 45.

One day, she fails to return. Her boyfriend, who works in the office, comes looking for her. In a conspiratorial tone, I open the cupboard and take out the gun. I seem to tell him to hide it and not let anyone know. It would be BIG trouble.

I am on the road again. I am in a spa town. A plump lady all wrapped up in towels is asking me for English lessons and seem impatient.

The scene switches and I am back in China on the run. I'm in a room, an empty one with cement floor. It seems to be a spacious lavatory and the cubicles have no doors. A cheap faded blue bag lies on the floor. I unzip it to find stationery items inside. I seem to think there are just too many items, so I repack the bag. I use pages taken from a magazine to wrap the items into a block. It is now a nice rectangular block that fits nicely into the bag. A man calls out. He asks me to take a look at the toilet. Above the squatting bowl where the pipe leads up to the cistern is cement. It's in the shape of Singapore. I don't say anything. But the man says: "How come got ants?"

Monday, 6 August 2012

A Fitful Sleep

I am talking to man; his face is not clear. He assures me that everything is alright. Behind him, a town. One of the many small towns in Malaysia I've been to. It's not clear where I am. The scene is busy though. The man is dressed in white singlet and shorts. He is neat.

I am comforted by his words as I try to assure myself that it alright to go back to sleep. The man seems wary and looks often over his shoulder. It's ok, he continues to say. I am suspicious but I try to sleep some more. An eye opens.

I am now behind a woman. An 'ah soh' (Chinese aunty) type of woman in a colorful short sleeve blouse so typical of women in the 70s. Her upper arms are large, like a middle-aged housewife's. She is carrying a child. The child looks back at me. The woman tells the child as she pats her back, "It's okay, kwai." Be good.

The woman has just exited a street market and is entering a  low office building. She is heading up the stairs. The child turns and stares back at me.

In the next scene, I am crossing a road. It could be Orchard, where Yen San building used to be. I am not sure as daylight is dim like dusk. I dart across out from behind a street-side shrub. The same child is there, in a stroller across the street. I tell her is it ok as I follow her down the street. A crowd seems to be doing the same in front of us. I feel protective towards the kid.

On my bed, my eyes open. I am still in fuzzy sleep mode. Bright light filters in from an uncurtained window; it's still daylight. I close my eyes and return to sleep.

I am now approaching a small yellow Cessna plane parked beside a hedge. It has no door and its propeller is churning. I climb in. It's alright, the pilot says. You are in safe hands.

We are up high in the clouds. I look at the plane's instrument panel and at the looming clouds in front. We zoom in.

Saturday, 4 August 2012

A Tuscany Rabbit Hole

I am inside the bedroom of a Tuscany country-house of sorts. You know, square-plinthed pillars with dangly vines and deep grained darkwood beams. A woman my wife whom I sense to be Jo, a gf I'd once been intimate with and loved, and I are about to make love. The bed is large, covered with white on country-green sheets and comforters. We're in a bit of a rush, as if stealing time for a passionate moment. She's in tight pants and sweat shirt kneeling over me. I am half naked in the covers, waiting.

A knock on the door. Jo reacts. In that instant, a switch. She becomes Julia Dreyfus, that often gobsmacked girl from Seinfeld. Not again! was the expression on her face as she rolls off the bed. An air of exasperation.  Jo and Julia have the same body type, the same kind of niceness and acquiescence. Girls who knew what they liked but were not sure how to get it - why I think my Unconscious did the body switch.

At the door is an old woman. White haired, wizened but not decrepit. She looks like Lagarde the head of the IMF but much older. We straightened ourselves as she walked in, uttering her bonjours (are we in France then?) and asking when we are going to pick up her stuff from the market.

The scene changes. I am in a field by a dirt road waiting for Jo/Julia to turn up. She does.

She's driving a strange cart. It's on a 3x4 feet board and on it a closed-up sewing machine; the Singer kind. She's sitting behind and steering it like a tractor, arms stretched out. There's a big smile on her face. I don't see wheels. The board/craft moves, bending the tall grass underneath.

Behind her a neighbour draws up. She's driving a somewhat similar contraption. But instead of a sewing machine, she's driving a shortened metal post-bed with bed springs. They dangle and jostle as she swerves away.

In another scene, I see the same neighbour in her patio, one that is shaded by vines and leaves. She's laying out some Summer treats on her thick and rustic wooden garden table. She making small talk but I cannot make out what she says.

The scene changes back to the house. The old woman (mother-in-law?) is very thankful as she receives her produce. We leave her and reenter our bedroom. We flop back onto that big country bed, me on my back holding Jo/Julia as she again kneels over me. I hold her waist and am now sure she is Jo. She lowers her lips as we seem to begin to make love. But I wake before that happens.


The next subsequent dream (after a short interrupted sleep):

I am cycling quite fast down a dark path. It is only illuminated by my bicycle light. With each push of the pedal, my light eats up the darkness in front. The narrow tarmac path rushes up to greet me to disappear underneath my pedalling feet. My bike light reflects off the zinc drain gratings that run alongside.

I seem to be riding along an embankment of some sort; a concrete slope is on my right. Images of a small dog greets me. Its disembodied head mouthing a bark. Next, a bigger dog appears, doing the same thing.
I am not perturbed as I feel disconnected by their silent animations. So what? Barking dogs don't bite; mouthing ones even less so.

I keep riding and my dream slowly dissolves into the distant darkness.