[Dreaming_Of_You: The_WTF?_Edition]

Last night, I dreamt that Trent was driving at night in the desert, on a highway not unlike the one between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, his black car plummeting down the road, into the night. He was tired and bleary, rubbing his eyes, and rolling down the window to try to stay awake. David Bowie's Sound and Vision (the SONG, not the greatest hits compilation) was blaring from his speakers, and Trent was singing along half-heartedly. The long, straight road ahead seemed endless and featureless.

Then, in the distance, there was a light. A town. He decided to stop and get a cup of coffee, some Taco Bell, ANYTHING. He needed to break his journey, to stretch his legs. The anticipation roused him a little from his near catatonic exhaustion, but as soon as he entered the the city limits, he knew something was wrong. It was almost as if the sound of the wind outside had stopped, and eveything out the windows was repeating, the signs, the buildings, the shapes of cars and people on the roadside, as if on a short, inescapable loop. He was stuck in a circular path, a vortex from which he could not escape. The town had him. There was no way out. All around him, neon lights and traffic signs to nowhere leered. Aimless, blank-faced victims of the gyre wandered the roadsides, dazed amid hulking shapes of ghostly, deserted big rigs.

Trent pulled his car over. It was coated with desert dust, dull and ugly, but the town was strangely pristine; nothing seemed real. It was real, but it didn't look like it. It looked like a movie set -- all too perfect, vivid, and contrived. Nothing seemed to bear the mark of time or use. The cars on the roadside were covered in the dust of the desert, but the town, the signs, the buildings; all of them were perfectly clean. He got out, and started shouting questions at the unresponsive zombies on the roadside.

"Where am I?"

"What the fuck is going on here?!"

"Hello? HELLO?!"

Nothing. No response. The people stared past him into nothing, as he grabbed at them, and shook them. They were empty, mere traces of the human beings. Trent stopped and looked around. He was surrounded by the mute shades of people, and he knew he was the only living thing for miles around. He looked down at his feet -- big, black boots -- and back towards his car. He knew it was hopeless, and at the same time, he had to find a way out. After that, Trent was calm. Once he realized that the people were cyphers, it was as if he folded up into himself, and his eyes were razor sharp.

But, you know how it is with dreams, right? There are holes in my memory of it.

After that, Trent stalked around purposefully, looking for a way out. It's a bit of a blur, what exactly happened, and the point of view was crazy, too. Sometimes, it was as if I were looking through Trent's eyes, and other times, I was watching him from outside. Here's what I do remember, though: the dream ended with Trent making out with a mannequin -- white, smooth, bald, made of plaster, and entirely unresponsive. Despite all that, it was hot watching the way his jaw worked, the way his eyes were half-closed, and the way his big, veiny hands and those crazy fingers held her plaster head.

Weird...

Don't look at me like that! At least he was listening to David Bowie's best record ever!

If I could control my nighttime brain, I'd order up a good old fashioned wish-fullfillment dream where Sparklepants sings me all his new songs that I haven't heard yet, and then feverishly gives me the high, hard one in a semi-public place, because he wants me that bad, and just can't wait to get me home.

Fucking hell.