Like any other day around the time, the clouds were luscious and I'm sure it was due to cloud-seeding and bad climate change; why else would it feel so fresh, and so random? Like the were technologically enhanced or were some cyber-illusion. These are my same exact thoughts about the country skies, when I am conscious, in real life anyway. The sky was a deep light blue, juxtaposed by the purest and fluffiest of whites; I was murdered in broad daylight upon the car's pause at the red STOP sign, another perfectly juxtapositioned object, on my families typical route home after picking up my sister from school. My uncle Joe blocked us from going forward in our car with his tubby bear belly body and flushed-looking face stained by the sun like a child's lips from drinking red punch; angry yet somewhat grinning like the maddest mad man ever known. I can't believe these images were produced by my sleeping mind, they are so troubling. He lifts up his double barrel shotgun and it looks so distinct and clear; its evident he is going to kill me and all I can focus on are the prickles of white hair that poke out from his skin to appear as a beard or goatee on his chin, filled by the occasional black or somewhat black hair. My heart just thumps like nervous fingers tapping a random object in the lap of their owner. Last minute, I try to duck as if I am going to use some slow motion effect spontaneously to escape the speed of his bullet. It hits me. I know it does. My mother looks at me, and I just know this is the way she would have looked at me in desperation and shock and pain if this were to actually happen; thats what the real pain is... the faith of humanity and trust in dreams and hope drift from her glossy eyes. Or the fact that I am seeing what it would look like if my actual uncle shot me. He's the nicest man. A good grandfather, and he even gave ME, me someone he's not the closest to, his original pressing of the Beatles' first album. Just a humble janitor at my old high school. I grabbed my mothers hand, and struggle at it too, my hand shakey and covered with blood from the voluntary effect of holding yourself after being struck by lightning encapsulated by some piece of gold tin or whatever contains a bullet's poison and spite. I grab my mother's hand like it is my last wish. And my vision is shakey and each thread of the loom that makes my vision just reassembles in a pattern that doesn't make sense and becomes white. I can't say anything more. Where did my unwanted murderer to? I have no idea of what the components are of such a mess, only the mess itself.
I shift into the next dream.
