What I remember now of the dream this morning is that I was working on something with a guy I used to know, a neighbor of a friend of mine, and this guy was goodhearted with so much potential but was awfully immature for his age, which often made him an annoyance, and he moved out of that building, like, a year and a half ago, so it surprised me to recall seeing him in my dream, and soon after that scene was over, my imagination had moved on to some darker alternate universe that had me hiding in an unfamiliar house under one or two heavy blankets in a corner of the front room, shades drawn, because I just didn't have time to bolt for a room toward the back of the house with the faceless older man who found us this house to begin with. He had been partway out of the room, headed for the hall when the front door flew open and let in what I assume was a militia, dressed all in black riot gear, shielded helmets protecting most of their faces from me. Two men in the front didn't obscure their faces, though, and one barked orders at the man who had been trying to help me, while the other looked over at the pile of blankets in the corner and, fearful, I accidentally made eye contact. My response was to flop some heavy, dark-colored blanket over my head, as if that would convey the message that I wouldn't try to describe him to any dissidents, due in large part to the fact that he, like the men behind him, currently had a long firearm in his hands. I was afraid that I was now going to be shot to death. Up until the moment I awoke at 11:22 a.m., lying on my arm in such a way that it felt amusingly numb, Dream Me was still alive.
I think I can tie those two memories together in the following way...
