Up the street, near San Rafael, there's a corral with big red stables and visually delightful fences that just scream "This is the southwest!" The gentleman running the outfit was raising labs. This day I decided to walk up and watch them trot around the track and think about how much I miss the company of dogs much to Spot's dismay. The ranch boss sidled up to me, "So you lookin' fer some dogs aintcha?"
I smiled, "Dunno. Things haven't been the same since Ben..." That's when my voice broke and my face became so hot with tears and I couldn't breathe over the sobs. Kate's name was barely choked out before I was a mournful wreck and the complete antithesis of manhood compared to the southwestern ideal of libertarian cowboys and the whores with hearts of gold that love them.

Eventually I regained my composure and slunk back to my basement. The place is full with the girls from work, chattering and yammering and laughing about inane shit that I can't understand making me feel out of place. Hiding in my bedroom wasn't an option since I could still hear them. "I wish Brian was here" was the only thing running through my head between gender-biased invectives. When I squeezed into the kitchen there was a tall, gawky chick blocking the fridge. When she turned around I saw it was Brian.

What the fuck, Brian was dressed normally but his hair was all eighties spikey. His face was painted up like those models in Robert Plant's videos with black raccoon stuff smeared across the eyes and hot pink rouge laid on thick from his ears and down his cheekbones. Neither of us said a fucking word.

Back outside, there was a brief interlude that introduced a brand new dream. Apparently one story that was never written and never drawn by Dr. Seuss was being performed for my benefit. The main character was a scrawny, purple musk ox that looked more like a My Little Pony than a musk ox. Her herd ostracized her for her talent out of jealousy. She kept trying to gain their esteem with her flying tricks but that only made her herd and family even more ornery. She'd flit through the skies with her big floppy ears catching the breezes while her bantha-like brethren milled about sullenly on the ground. Now and again they'd stampede in a fit of pique. Towards the end of the story, people began appearing and shooting webs into the air and treetops in hopes of capturing this free spirit. It was inevitable, when I found her she was bound to the top of a treetrunk and staring up at the skies that no longer belonged to her.

Chaos erupted, doors opened in the grass sending forth numerous anthropomorphic animals who began flinging fruits at their foes. I found refuge in a dark room far from the fray and ended in darkness.