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In the dream last night. Driving a cargo van down an industrial street. Passed Michael Barclay waiting at a bus stop with road cases. I knew this location was near ECW Press, figured that might be how he ended up here. Felt sorry for him because the bus probably comes once in a long while. Thought for a second whether to turn around and offer him a ride, then did. Pulled up, he was surprised and appreciative. We loaded the equipment into the van, then he explained to take everything to a certain police station and represent his point of view to the cops about some previous complication. Also, he was not coming with me. I only wanted to give him a lift but now was expected to be his advocate for a business having nothing to do with me. On top of it he was remaining at the bus stop. It was very annoying. Later, waking up and realizing how incredible it is that the brain improvises stories, so much better than the other thing it creates, me and you, the busy delusional believers in their separate state and that it runs the show. A similar reminder when one plays their instrument and glances down at fingers or feet engaged with strings or valves or pedals and just watch it without interfering. Might even be amazing speed, faster than the conscious mind offers attention. In a David Byrne voice you might ask how did I get here? Who owns this beautiful life? We’re on a road to nowhere.

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