She is very young, tall, willowy, and she likes me. She is laying over me now, kissing me, her knees drawn up beside us.

Now she is driving, and I'm following in another vehicle. She does not seem happy. No, surely she is depressed. There is no joy in her. She leads me into a tunnel and then she whips a U and goes into the tunnel again, this time against traffic.

I see one, two vehicles, bubble up out of the tunnel like shocked fish. One floats on its back, the other on its side. She has done this, and when I have followed her down, I see she is prepared to make it right. She will go back into the tunnel for the third time, this time on foot. There are items she is taking for her lifesaver mission.

Now we're at her house. I'm sitting in a kitchen breakfast alcove. Another enters.

Dick Cheney.

He is very sad, crying even. He sits and mourns. I seem to remember he has shot somebody else. I'm a guest here, so must be polite to any unsavory character the family may invite, although I much distrust their taste.

I say, "It will be the same on the other side of the valley." This is supposed to be philosophically apt and encouraging, but it can mean not that the trouble will be over but that it is episodic. Anyway, it isn't working; Dick still has his head down.

A cow approaches the back of his chair. A cow the size of a large dog. And, in fact, the cow hikes a leg against the back of Dick's chair.

He becomes aware of the moisture, makes efforts to wipe off the back of his chair. I do not help. To me, it seems appropriate somehow, as if someone jumping off a roof should expect to meet the ground hard. I am fascinated by the process however.