All I can say is I continue to hope that crazy dreams mean you're sane. This time, I was called to the jail. The jail didn't look much like a jail but rather like a fairly airy office suite. There were two staffers, a man and a woman. The woman was the nice but honesty-impaired technician from Dad's dialysis facility. I was there, not due to any crime, but because Salma Hayak was casting a movie. She chose me, presumably for my astonishing charisma. (Hey, it's a dream!)
She and the director gave me a ride home in a convertible. I was thinking of borrowing her shoes, but then noticed that I already had mine on. Home in this instance was a multi-story mansion. Somehow I could see the finished basement from the outside. (OK, they picked me for my charisma and my superpowers.) I was telling my dad, my mom and my brother William about being in the movie, distracted a lot by the eighty or so people milling around.
Then I was in a skyscraper, trying to get to the basement. Apparently. I was now a subway's ride away from Hollywood, and the subway was in the basement. I was also trying to reach the director by cell phone, but even in my sleep I worked out that that isn't too workable inside a skyscraper. There were many attractive women coming from offices and I considered that they ought to just shoot the movie here.
Tragically, I never found the basement. Presumably, I'm still there.
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