I am riding around on a small, tandem tricycle of sorts that Rob found somewhere. Yes, it’s an old tricycle that two people can sit side by side on, and ride. We have driven this thing from one side of the state to another in very little time. On the way, we stop at a gas station for soda and smokes. There station attendant is a tall, fat black guy, about 25 years old. He is singing very loudly when we enter the gas station. He is singing along with a karoake machine. Turns out, the song he is singing is a tune that he wrote with a Casio Keyboard and some other instruments at his home studio. When he’s at work, he brings a box of CD’s to sell. I buy one, Rob buys one. We head back outside except this time the tricycle has turned into a dumpy old car. Like an old beat up brown Corvette.

We drive up a rough patch that leads to the top of a hill where there is a lot of old junk metal. We decide to have a smoke up there, but an old drunk man walks up the hill and disturbs the session.

The next part of the dream takes place in Kalamazoo. Rob is driving that tricycle down the sidewalk and a pack of German Shepherds begins attacking him. He gets out with very little injuries and we end up walking into a Wedding Banquet, or some official meeting with people talking in Dutch or another langauge I’ve not heard much of. Don’t remember any more.

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