As always, I want to write my dreams more, remember them more, but I never put in the effort. I always have other things to do. Other things to do. Just made it through last night's email, and the weekend's email from work and other various sundries, and haven't gotten started on anything else, so I'm going to try to have the patience and clarity of mind to get the details down and perhaps even do them some sort of justice. But probably not that last bit--

[twelve minutes pass as I lose the fight to distraction]

[another 25 minutes pass]

[holy hell, I started this at 12:20 and now it's 5pm; work kept me busy, indeed... and still some more, I think...]

[yeah, and now it's the next DAY, 1pm. la la la?]

There really wasn't much to the dream. I could describe it in graphic detail, because there was that--as always, fully realized, very vivid, beautiful colors, less than beautiful smells, etc.

I was walking with a couple of friends (don't remember now if I knew then who they were)--and an arrogant-esque biker-dude got on his bike and then drove up a steep 6-foot mound of dirt, then down it, and spun out on the down. He brought the bike back up, dusted himself quickly, and then spun out into the street. He managed to get up to some speed before giong down, but down he went, and then he spun around and around and around, spun around until he pulled the bike back up _while spinning_, and tore out down the road, never looking back.

There was blood on the road, and bits of bike, and bits of biker. I remember specifically a gruesomely separated thumb.

And I also remember fairly vividly two of four cylinders coming clean from the bike and being left behind. _That_ was both very odd and true blasphemy.

I woke up very not happy.