I love dreams.
So, after an odd but strangely logical dream that included talking with Michael Emerson about plastic flamingos, starring in some sort of lame action movie and getting locked in a basement full of sliding glass doors courtesy of Carrie White's psychotic mother, a car alarm woke me up at three in the morning. I apparently fell right back to sleep because the next thing I remember was talking to the Man in Black. "You're not doing a very good job of giving me pleasant dreams," I told him. He laughed. "That's not really what I do."