I was running. I was running from Jim Carrey. I had become entrapped inside a mid-revolutionary battle house during a nuclear holocaust, and Jim Carrey was my torturous captor. Bombs exploded outside, in all worlds, through and through, reality was unraveling, and I was skipping from world to world, lost from my own, in a warp zone tree infested modest two-story home. With my crippled pit bull in tow, I leapt from limb to banister in fevered and breathless panic in hopes of completing my mission and escaping back to my world with my dog. I found a warp hole and shimmied through into a vine-entangled jungle room. A suitcase bomb took out some flooring of the room in the next world, and my viney floor dissolved into a yawning gap between the trunks of two gigantic trees. My dog became laboriously heavy in my leather satchel, but I continued in frenzied haste down the tree house sidewalks towards a glass exit door. It was an exit to the outside. I could see shrubs, and a paved parking lot with modest sedans of grayish blue and maroon – it was my world! I crawled on my belly through the door and paused at the edge of the brick building, relishing in the edificial fire cover it provided against the turrets. I rested my dog’s satchel against the wall and positioned myself to peep around. Explosions, screaming, bullets shredding, my heart pounding; I inched the outermost corner of my left eye around the wall – too see a pair of army boots. I looked up in terror to see Jim Carrey smiling sadistically as he pulled back a long sword, then buried it in my skull.
Darkness surrounded me, and a deafening toll sounded. My heart pounded as I slowly became aware of grey contours about me. I lurched upright and stared at my blaring alarm, whose face dutifully read 5:14. Oh. The dim melancholy of my small upper room reminded me that there was no revolution, and I was curled on my sunken brown couch under a star-covered afghan having a nightmare.