It was just a nap, interruptions and all, but this is still my dream. I suppose.

I dream that Bob is back. My mind has warped his parting into strange and new analogies; he was frozen like Han Solo, but of his own will this time. He decided it was time to go and took himself out of hibernation and threw himself back into my life. Right into my life. He had not cut his hair; he had not washed his hair. He was covered in vaseline and raucous, and I didn’t know what to say.

He came to our studio to work. He passed the stairs before me and I ignored him because I couldn’t conceive of how to react. I still didn’t want him to think I was following, distracted, weak. He waited in the stairwell for me to get up my courage and spoke to me roughly, unguarded, like friends. Only I didn’t like him anymore. His rudeness insulted me. His absence had chilled me, and I was afraid. I dreamed the next day that I was writing in my journal that I had dreamed he had returned, but there he was again in the back of the room, pointed out by my instructor and it was no dream at all.

It was a dream this time. I am sure.

I am finished with this ghost.

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