I hate it when people tell me their dreams all the time.

So, anyway, here’s two from last night. They’re not here to entertain, they’re here for me to consider:

• I’m in one of those foreign dream places that you can’t really define in English. One of its aspects is as the former residence of an older more connected man than. He has left it and I’m about to, but first I’m gathering a few things to take with me, which has me in a bottom drawer which has folders which have envelopes left by this adulter figure as if to hide something. The first has old foreign currency folded in half but in otherwise pristine condition. The others have flat plastic bags with maybe 10 grams of white powder. One spills open. I’m gathering the others. People are coming. Cut.
• I’m in a foreign country that seems to be an amalgam of Nicaragua and Guatemala. On a dusty rocky road like those of Cantabal I talk to two guys. One vouches for me to the other saying that his dad said it was okay. The other agrees to go on a run for me. I watch him walk off and onto a narrow trail into a jungley overgrowth. He begins to run and climb. I chase. Cut.

Not sure to what degree dreams mean anything, but still a little thoughtful over whether this is the bad sign of a festering disease below my superficial actions or the draining away of all this history and obsession. I’ll be positive.