In a dark room, I watch UFO researcher David Jacobs at a desk, at work on something, clearly frustrated. He did not seem to notice me and I tried not to say anything, but I finally broke down and spoke to him. I told him that in time I will read his new book, but he needs to accept the fact that he got some things wrong in his research. “They are not hybrids,” I tell him. “Two distinct species cannot crossbreed. They would have to be transgenic human beings, as your late friend Hopkins suggested.” I said some more things, but I cannot recall what exactly.
Then I wake up. A short time later I try sleeping again and go on to have an enduring dream:
I exit the house, leaving the party and walk a short way down the road to my car. Just as I open the door and sit down the breakfast coordinator from work asks me if I wanted to be a page for them. She said it was fine if I wanted to leave, she just thought of me and wanted to extend the invitation. So I go back to the party where I take some notes and do some things for them, but eventually I get bored and start talking with some people there and then become distracted by Penny, who I sit next to and kiss for a short time.
After some time I decide to go, so I leave the house again, but on my way to my car I remember my sketchbook, which I thought I left inside. I cannot find it there, however, so presume I must have left it in the car when the breakfast coordinator asked me to be a page.
Again I leave the house and head to my car — but now my car is gone. As I begin frantically looking for it around the block, I notice I’m walking on air again. It suddenly strikes me that I would be more likely to find my car if I could float at a higher altitude, so I do just that. I’m hovering, rising, flying all around but I cannot find my car. I keep going back to the party, hoping someone might help me, hoping I could maybe retrace my steps.
I think it was the second time I had gone back to the house that some college-age kid at the party pointed off into the distance. “Your car is over there,” he said. “It’s the one with the rags on it.” I flew over to look but saw nothing. Him and his friends laughed behind the closed door. As I fly around town again, I see cars propped up on their back end like they’re ready to be launched like rockets into the sky. Was it some college prank? Had they perhaps stolen my car?
At some point I asked a bird to help me find the car, and he told me he would but he flew off and never returned. I went back to the house again, only to find the old head manager at work. I told her about the paging thing and how I could not find my car. She asked if I needed money, and I told her no, what I needed was my car. She then hands me a dollar in a fashion that implied I was trying to weasel it out of her and she felt sympathy.
I float or fly around a bit more and travel through the doors of a store, a warehouse, and one guy who works there calls out to me. He says he did not see me enter the store on the cameras, as I was flying too high to be caught on them. I tell him I am just passing through and fly on through the store.
Someone comes out of a doorway and I go in it before it closes, but it turn out that this was no exit. It seems like a very high-tech place with these men in black suits everywhere. Fearing it might be a CIA front, I exit the door I had come in when someone else opens it and quickly exit the store.
I resume my search for my car. In the midst of flying, I feel myself coming out of the dream but try to stay in it, determined to find my car before awakening — so clearly at some level I knew this was a dream. Why couldn’t I just go lucid?