| A girl, who is telling me that eating the remains of any living being is a crime against the planet, offers me some rock salad and tells me that my stomach will adapt before I know it. She and I and some 10 other people are all living in a large house. We're all celebrating because the Tool concert will be soon. A few start experimenting with a drug referred to as teleport. Not sure whether I partake.
The concert is over, and all I have to show for it is a single mental image of the stage during some part of the show with dim lighting. I keep thinking of this snapshot, trying to conjure up more memories, trying to remember even what songs they played, but to no avail. I'm so tired of these short-term memory failures, of the constant acceleration of time, of not knowing what I said in past conversations and never remembering any of my dreams*. I fittingly re-produce a phrase from somewhere in my subconscious which, though I don't remember it as such during the dream, was originally a misinterpreation of a Tool lyric: How can it mean anything to me, if I can't recall anything at all?
Luckily, for my sanity's sake, I soon awoke and discovered that the concert was still some 12 hours away.
* Of course, this thought comes during the only dream I've woken up and remembered in the past month or so | 
