Maya leadsynth and Jim jwithington and I all go to some kind of technology museum together. The museum is a lot more than a backdrop for the exhibits -- it's itself amazing to look at, all curves and angles and brushed steel and polished wood and balconies and tiny, adorable elevators and out-of-the-way nooks. In the spirit of creativity and fun, visitors are encouraged to make their way around the museum any way they want to, so Jim has brought some kind of amazing contraption that allows him to rapell off of balconies with a piece of fishing line, then push off from the ground and bounce back up to where he had been. We'll be walking along a balcony and then suddenly I'll look over and he'll be gone, but there'll be a piece of fishing line knotted around the railing and he'll be looking at something two floors down. Then he'll reappear a short while later. I notice some other kids suited up with wings that let them fly around the exhibits that are attached to the ceiling. They're the cool kids. Maya has some kind of special superhero gear too, but I don't remember what. I don't have anything.
It's dark. I'm walking down an empty highway in Portland with Eric, a kid I went to high school with. The embankments are covered with trees and we're walking down the center line. In real life, Eric has barely crossed my mind since we graduated, but in the dream, he's just gotten back from fighting in Iraq. He turns to me and says, "The trees are so beautiful. This is more trees than I saw in a year and a half in Iraq." His face and his voice are the definition of "flat affect".
To fill the awkward silence, I yammer in the oh-yeah-aren't-the-trees-awesome vein for a little while, realizing with growing horror that I am not saying anything worth listening to and that he is waiting for me to stop. The second I'm done talking, he says, "You're so beautiful, Lindsey." Same face, same voice. Then I wake up.