Good morning, everybody.
It was a hot, sunny day, probably in some suburban town in the desert. I was driving down a steep slope. I drove behind a family member, possibly my mother. My mom was driving some sporty, red car. Either I had a report or both my mom and I each had a report that needed to get somewhere.
But both our cars got stopped. I don't think it was for speeding. I think there may have been an accident ahead of us, or perhaps my mom's car had gotten into an accident.
My mom was now gone from her car. A police officer (man or woman?) came back to my car. The officer basically told me how this entire incident had been my fault. It seemed like the officer was going to arrest me. But I explained something about getting my report somewhere. Because of the report, the officer let me go, if only temporarily.
I was now inside a house, like everything that had happened had actually happened inside a house. It was night. The house was all dark, except for some dim light that came in through the front window.
I was walking toward the front door with my report. But I remembered that I needed to take my mom's report as well. Since my mom was gone, she wouldn't be able to take the report herself.
The report was sitting on the corner of a little breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. But to get the report I actually had to walk up some really steep slope in the house, then go down the slope. The slope was steeper than the staircase up to the second floor. It seemed to float over the staircase. It may also have been invisible.
I came down the slope and grabbed the report. I think my report was small. But my mom's report was very large. I remembered that my report was supposed to go to Michael Aquino. But I don't remember if my mom's report was supposed to go to him, too.
I may have walked out the door of the house. I believe I was talking in my head with some male authority figure. The person may have been Michael Aquino. But he may also have been a tall, young, muscular man with a golden tan and curly, blonde hair.
I realized I had somehow left my mother's report in the house and on the breakfast bar again. I walked back into the house to get the report. A car may have stood beside the breakfast bar. It may have been a red sports car, like the one my mom had been driving. The passenger side door was open. The tall, blonde man may have been standing beside the car. I may have been continuing my conversation with the man.
It was early morning. The sky was deep blue with pre-sunrise light. I stood out beside a bus in some open space. I walked along the ridged chrome side of the bus and got into the bus. The entire time, I may have been thinking about something I needed to do, like some news I needed to give people, or some report I needed to hand off to people.
I got to some space on the bus. There was one seat open between three men. The men were like stock characters out of a Japanese pink film. They were all dressed like transient people, wearing jackets and skull-caps and baggy clothes like cargo pants.
For some reason, as if because of the position of the seat, but also because of some power of force the men had over me, I had to throw myself, almost like a missile, head first, into the seat. As I did this, the men may either have attacked me or taunted me.
But then there may have been an understanding among the men that I was protected. I was here under the auspices of a specific person. If anything happened to me, the person who had sent me here would hurt whoever was responsible. This may have caused the men to stop attacking or taunting me.
It could also possibly have been that the men had taken a liking to me, so that they no longer wanted to hurt me. They may even have felt bad about having hurt me in the first place.
There had been three girls in some shadowy room. I could really only see their silhouettes. They had each been talking on a phone. But their phone conversations all had to do with some kind of internet attack. The attack had something to do with me.
I knew that I was going to have to report this attack. The girls all decided to call off the attack. But they were all accusing me of being a tattle-tale.
I felt bad. I didn't like to think of myself as a tattle-tale. And I didn't want the girls to feel bitter toward me, because I didn't want to have to face the consequences of their bitterness later on.
But I suddenly realized, and I may have shared this news with the girls, that I only knew them by their avatar names. I didn't know their real names, only the names they had used to communicate with people during this attack.
This made the girls feel a little more at ease. They'd decided to stop their attack. And they knew that if they were caught afterwards, their real identities having been found out, that I wouldn't be to blame.