I dreamed of kicking bears after they chased me up a tree.
I dreamed of children armed with baseball bats and riot gear; perfectly masked so as to hide their innocent faces from those befallen by their wrath.
Perhaps for a few moments I dreamed your face made of stars and the world reborn from the blackest sea and all the blue monsters rising up from the depths onto new lands, the old world seemingly forgotten, unspoken, unseen, and unseen, to be
invisible like the dreams of middle-aged men, kicking their wives while they sleep, steeped in a silent malaise and weighing options to best cope with the inevitable betrayl of that which they tried to drown in those dark depths.
I dreamed of shooting and looting and reaping and raving and winning and losing and running stark naked across a barren field and being
in the end, afraid and tired, worried for the children and that which is coming for them.
I dreamed of kicking bears in their sharp-toothed mouths.
I dreamed of hungry children marching to claim their birthrights.