Wednesday, September 12, 2007

Iced

Last night I dreamed I was driving somewhere in the Pacific Northwest (Seattle?), in a golden-beige convertible filled with crushed ice. It was definitely the thing to do, as we saw several pick-ups on the freeway doing the same thing. About six of us were sitting on the ice, although I noticed that I didn't feel particularly cold. There were some drinks stuck in the ice, but the driver was only having iced tea. He could have been tipsy, however, for all the driving he was doing; it was my responsibility, from the back of the car, where I was sitting perpendicular to the direction of travel, to do the steering. By rotating an empty glass in my outstretched hand (when I remembered to), I kept us within the traffic lines.

Later on, I spoke a little Italian.

2 comments:

some poems don't rhyme said...

awesome.

some poems don't rhyme said...

oh, and i'm analyzing you at this very moment...

i'll be back...

;-)