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Dreams are only dreams. They hold no importance in our lives. At least, that’s what I know, or what I think. I think I know that, but have you been skydiving? You know those little planes they take you up in? Well, I’ve been skydiving. I know those planes. It feels like you need to jump out, because if you don’t, you’ll go down with the plane. But hurtling towards the earth, nothing but a functioning parachute between you and death? That right there, that’s fucking bliss.

Once, about 16 years after I voluntarily fell out of one of those planes (because that’s all you really do, you take a step over the threshold and fall), I had a dream that I was in another one, and I was climbing with the plane to 10,000 feet. No one said anything, but I knew that at 10,000 feet I would meet Tom Petty, he of the recently deceased variety. I wasn’t a huge fan of Tom’s, in his life or death, but I didn’t question anything. A great songwriter, and one I would be honored to meet. As we passed 10,000 feet I stood up and started walking. The interior of the plane was too big for its purpose, but I ignored the logical inconsistencies. After all, this was a dream. I walked through an opening in the back of the plane, and I was in a new place, opened like a sanctuary. As if I was transported to a dimension within the plane, but outside of my consciousness. There were people I didn’t know. No Tom Petty. The people were dressed in black. Up ahead of them, there was a coffin. It wasn’t Tom Petty’s, but I knew who it was meant for. No one had to tell me that.