and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

You'd think I'd have something to say this time around.. but I don't. Move along folks. Nothing to see here.

O.K. Now that I got that out of the way.
It was a dark and stormy night. Not the kind of night that keeps you indoors but the kind that draws you into it's bleak darkness cause, well, cause it's just so unusual and rare. I was sitting in my car with the radio tuned to public radio, listening to mozart. Steam was rising off the engine like fog off a lake and the drizzle oozed down my windshield at a snails pace. The water made blurry ripples down the glass - the sort of visuals you expect from shrooms - that obscured the dark alley outside. It was 10:16 and I was getting antsy. I'd been waiting there for about a quarter hour for the grocer to shut the lights off, lock the door, and leave the building through the back. Previous research told me this usually occured by 10:10 but tonight he was still in there, fiddling away with the cash drawer and talking on the phone; probably a distant relative. I could see the left half of his body through the display window, swaying back and forth as he spoke with his hands, drawing large scenes in the air for the listener on the other end of the line. This wasn't right. I looked back through the rear window, through the bars of condensation, but nobody was there. I tapped the shift to the music and started counting the money. I should have known right then to get the hell out. Never count the money before it's in your hands.