Heroes, Family, Faux Seattle

I have been having really sleepless nights for the last few week, either due to nicotine before bed, nicotine withdrawal, overdrinking, underdrinking, or the simple fact that my frequent bedmate has been vacationing in San Diego or Mexico or Texas for the last two weeks. I am no stranger to weird dreams. I have taken pride in my subconscious's ability to produce the psychic experience of Twin Peaks: Season 3, or oh-so-frequent events of not knowing if I'm the protagonist, on-looker, or anti-hero. But lately my dreams have become sort of disjoint mixes of multiple scenes occurring simultaneously, vague work anxieties, sexual panic, and an overwhelming desire to be somewhere besides New York. Last night I dreamed I was crossing a bridge from New York to Seattle and was attacked by a swarm of aggressive homeless people before making it across and then being distracted by a beautiful orange piece of machinery revolving in the snow like some kind of drill or watermill. And I didn't have my camera. And then I didn't have money. And then I had a fight with my family. And then I woke up. And sadly, that was the best sleep I've had in two full weeks.