02 January 2006

Narrator. Ducks. Low Fuel.

For two days I woke to find myself narrating the events of my dreams. Don't know if I was talking in my sleep or not. It wasn't senseless narrating, either - it would have been nice to have been able to record it.

Last night, at my grandparents'. This time there was a tiny canal lining the yard. There was a big splash and two ducks flew from the water. My dad was there. We fished under the water with our hands and held the ducks we found. They were tame. They looked like mallards, but mallards that had stolen the plumage of a hummingbird. Then we heard my cousin, down the hill on the other side of a hedge, "Hey, those are my ducks." He was holding a dead duck up by the neck.

We went down the hill. Where the end of the hedge met the street, there was another canal. This one was filled with multi-colored trout, some huge party-colored bass, and ducks.

In another segment, my car fuel gauge dropped when it had just been on full. I was pissed. I don't remember where I was driving to.

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