Renting a room in a seaside resort town. Riding my bicycle to a little cafe to do writing. The bike path skirted city parks and wended under the soaring overpasses of a tangle of highway interchange. While the scenery was SoCal, the weather was suspiciously Portland/Seattle. Apparently there are cool, wet deserts in dreamland.
It was raining and there were flash floods. Some of the tire ruts on the bike path were flooded and much deeper than you'd think: Only as wide as a bike tire but filled with water and deep enough to swallow a bicycle wheel to the axle. And ISIS was putting mines in the bottom of some of them. I think this is what comes of dreaming while the news is on.
There was this old Bosniak guy at the cafe every day with one dead eye and his skull obviously deformed from a long-healed injury. The guy behind the counter told me that he'd been hit in the head by a Nazi rifle bullet when he was with the partisans as a kid, and now he was going to head to Syria to fight jihad.
I decided to look for a new apartment closer to the cafe and the seaside, so I didn't have to ride under the interchange. LabRat had a car and offered to drive me around looking for places with good balconies; I wanted something in town, but with an ocean view where I could sit outside and look out over the buildings at the sea and write.
Then I woke up.