I walked on the messy translucent membranes on the thin, rickety, folding frames I pushed down and back with my feet. When I reached the drop, I tore the membrane and got down through it (it pulled up my shirt); to slow my descent I let my hand slowly tear down through the membranes I passed, and parts of the upper frames were dragged down with me under my arms.
In the buildings below, the great warehouse rooms full of freight, I made my way, not expecting to see any people. Yet I did: and they were in casual clothes at that. They walked to a door on the far side of the room, but one saw me. I hoped they would take no notice, but she spoke on a phone (a mobile phone shaped like an old-fashioned telephone), and a small person or young child happened soon upon me in a network of aisles between stacked pallets of boxes; this small person also took out a phone which looked even more old-fashioned.
They set a bomb doll on me. It was a farm boy shape, only a little shorter than the small person, and walked quickly towards me with an angry expression. I kicked it and threw it near the killers, so it would explode on them if they didn’t disarm it, but they must have set the time on it longer than I thought, as they calmly sent it back to me.
I decided to make friends with it; I held it and spoke to it. Its yellow, chin-length, slightly wavy hair was of one piece with its head. Its mouth also could not open, which was just as well: with a thumping sound, it was trying to bite my hand.
I went to the shop in those buildings: the shop keeper was a tall, thin, brown rabbit, so was safe. I asked for the mystic ingredient “Gam Calustra Gama Guma”.
“A rare one certainly,” the shopkeeper said, “but I must only scratch my head a bit.” It scratched its head with the tip of one long ear. “I believe it may be on the third set of shelves, on the left.” It pointed also with one of its ears, the other ear curling in an arch.
I found what I needed, and at a wooden desk there in the shop I mixed the mixture and applied it to the bomb doll’s head. Something must have been wrong, as its arms disintegrated: the mixture must have taken off the hands “so that it could not do anything”. I prepared the mixture again, and applied it. I could see that the bomb was disarmed, but as the angry expression of the doll’s face could not move, I could not tell if it was rubbing itself against my leg in friendship or trying to bite me again. I asked if it was my friend, and it nodded, so I decided to call it, “Hueford”.
This was a dream I dreamed the night before last – with a few things described more clearly than I remember them, and a few things added in a state at least partly awake, such as the name “Hueford”. I prayed to have a particularly interesting dream (all my dreams are interesting to me), and God knew I loved to remember words and such that came from a dream – such was the name of the curious ingredient, “Gam Calustra Gama Guma”, which according to dream knowledge had to do with rabbits in some way.
(It only struck me just last evening that the dream made a pun: disarming a bomb by taking its arms off.)