He is a nondescript man walking with a backpack, a day pack a college kid might use.  He is walking through desert terrain, my dream wants to call it Route 66, but there is no road here, just red earth. No mountains or trees, no creatures anywhere.  I can hear his feet trod the ground.

Then he comes to a place where some green grass is growing, it seems out of place.  He takes off his backpack and all his clothes, then puts on a dark blue suit and tie and shoes that he’d been carrying. When he is dressed a crowd of people come and take him by the arms and drag him away. They put him in a cage with bars, wide but not wide enough for him to squeeze through.  The people are just people, nondescript, but they are carrying large wooden poles and they begin to beat him through the bars.  They are beating him. He is on the ground, motionless, and they walk away carrying their poles.

The scene changes and I am in a brightly lit department store, standing between two rows of maybe the stationery aisle. I am looking for something, perhaps.  A man comes and puts a large, cobalt-blue journal down on a safe. I look at him and he looks at me and he seems to want to say (warn) don’t look in that book.  I know this book, I have one exactly like it, and I wonder what he wrote in his.  He walks away and I know I’m going to open his book while he goes off to look for a wall mirror for his wife.