Yesterday. Dream of Atlantis and hotel room keycards. Of best friend, rising waters, shutting windows. I'm not sure if the water rose to touch the sky, or the sky came down upon the sea. I only remember the merging of blues.Then I tried clipping the curtains together to keep out the sight of disaster. I thought it might keep the water out.

Early this morning I was watching another movie in my dream. A couple of weeks ago Dennis Hopper was hunting down Clive Owen from LA to Paris. I squirmed as he shot my brooding (and so beautiful) Clive in the head. I felt the life draining out as he lay dying, blood flushing out. This morning pitbulls were fighting. No. Before the pitbulls I was playing tourguide to random guai lows. I took them to Ladyhill hotel, but it was different. Fresh coat of pink paint, and nothing like what I'd remembered it to look like. I was talking about the great ice-kachangs, and how it would make a fantastic boutique hotel. We jumped in the car again because it wasn't quite the place we were hoping it would be. We drove over the Nicoll Highway, and there were buildings in the water. Tall, fluorescent-lit protrusions scattered across the Marina Bay. Then the alarm went off and I snoozed it. There was Clive again, this time with his white pitbull. Logical progressions escape me in dreams, but a pack of pitbulls appeared, and mulled the white one to death. I watched while the dog owner cradled his lifeless pet, took a look at its mangled neck, shook his head, tears dribbling down, and tossed its carcass out of the window and into the sea. I woke in shock. It was bloody 7, and I hate waking in the middle of REM. Still reeling from the awful dream, eyes still so unwilling to grant access to morning light.