I woke to a dragon standing at the end of my bed. I saw it because it was breathing fire, lighting up the room. I was calm since I’m never disturbed while laying down, and said nonchalantly, “Oh, hi, are looking for the bathroom?”
The dragon was taken aback, I guessed because I wasn’t screaming and running around the room. The dragon said, “Yes, actually, I am.”
I told the dragon to go out the door and hang an immediate right. The dragon thanked me and left.
I lay there, wondering if I would fall back asleep. Sometimes I can fall into a doze within seconds. Other times I’m taken on a jumbled phantasm of fantasies, memories, and strewn thoughts, before I finally succumb.
Neither happened as I was distracted by rummaging coming from my living room. I got up and found the dragon looking through my collection of books.
The dragon said, “I was looking for something to read while I sat on the pot.”
I recommended Moby Dick. I had been reading it for some months and grown weary with its leviathan over fondness. If it got burnt up by the dragon, I wouldn’t feel the need to go out and buy another copy.