There's a cemetery alongside Route 78 in New Jersey. It is situated between my hometown and neighboring Millburn. Main Street is the dividing line between both towns where Millburn is on one side of the road and my father's best friend lives right across the street from it. On the hometown side is a small side street with two brick homes that I always presumed belonged to the groundskeeper. Before my freshman year of high school I discovered that this one chick with enormous tits, who gave herself the nickname of Chester, lived in one of those houses. For some reason this discovery undermined my cemetery caretaker theory.

This graveyard has always been associated with summertime in my memories for I would always wander through it while visiting the municipal pool. There was a tall chainlink fence with a door that was almost never locked. I am certain that the dead are usually very grateful for company or at least being happy to be in the midst of the noises of the living.

In my dream there was no Route 78 but the concrete sound barrier was still in place. Nearby familiar houses were gone replaced by open meadows and tall shady trees. Also the graveyard was still there, still packed as it would be at the turn of the century. The brick homes were gone and replaced with an elderly farmhouse and another house that would be more appropriate in the midwest than in the Republic's northeast. Night was already in progress but no stars marred the perfect black vault. When I did look up the leaves of the trees appeared to be darker than the sky yet there really was no light except for whatever was thrown on the grass from the buildlings.

My bike was kept outside and unlocked. Everytime I went outside a piece of my bike would be missing. No part would go missing without the former missing part being returned and competently reinstalled on my bike. First the seat was gone much to my annoyance but at least I could still ride while standing up like in my youth. Before my next excursion into the evening my back wheel was gone but the seat had been returned and adjusted for my height. I pushed my bike around in the vain hope of finding the wheel so I could go for a proper ride.

That's when I ran into the fax-puller from my job in waking life. We used to dislike each other because she slammed a door in my face and I brought the situation to the attention of management. Any other recourse would've been socially unacceptable. Now we are actually nice. Anyway she lived in the dilapidated farmhouse and she recently acquired a bicycle of her own. I took the time to explain the best way to lock up a bicycle, looping the chain or cable between the back tire and the frame. She listened but secured her bike the way she wanted heedless of my advice. The mischievous spirits or clever thieves outright stole her bike. Making matters worse, the old farmhouse started disassembling itself covering her yard with carefully sorted piles of bricks, boards and other stuff.

I spent the rest of the dream wandering around what used to be the interior of the barn, peering at the strange machines and bulky 1950's computers that would be considered fortunate to have similar calculating power as a modern refrigerator.

Above the arctic circle are many strange pools of hot water. People visit them for their health and others for religious reasons. My reason for coming was unknown because I just popped into existence.

If one could view them from the air this complex of pools would appear to be sandy brown honeycombs with sky blue centers. From where I stood the vapor was already rolling towards me and warming my bones. I passed a little girl dressed as a fairytale princess and ended up wading into the waters fully clothed. Everyone appeared to be clothed so I didn't draw any angry stares. The water was warm like a hot tub and only came up to mid thigh on me. Sitting in the pool was Arsenio Hall.

I waded around, splashed the water with my hands and generally wondered what was expected of me at this exclusive tourist trap. After less than an awkward hour later I sloshed the concrete stairs and started walking down the narrow sandstone pathways between the pools towards what I considered to be home. An unseen voice from on high spoke to me and said that I was only five centimeters tall. The little girl dressed as a fairytale princess appeared beside me and proudly proclaimed that she was more than a mile high in height. "These pools are equalizers," resonated Voice with measured Stentorian diction, "their gifts to the bathers are humility and pride."

The purpose was lost on me and I lumbered down another set of stairs onto the centuried ice above the arctic circle leaving the rolling mists of these strange springs and losing myself in the brewing blizzard which lay before me to the south.