Anything for the cause

Last night I dreamt I was staying in a seriously swank hotel with my First Love. It was during the holiday season and we were having the best time ever. We enjoyed long walks on their trails, fabulous candlelit dinners in their private dining room, canoodling *everywhere* and long, serious talks while sprawled on the king size bed in our cavernous room.

I think I could say I felt pure happiness during the few seconds that dream probably lasted. It was like a drug.

Then, as quickly as the high was presented to me, fate decided I was a naughty girl and should be punished. A fire began in the hotel, sweeping through the building at an alarming rate. I lost S. but glimpsed my camera on my bedside table. Then it hit me: I would have to take as many pictures of the hotel as I could for posterity.

I proceeded to run through every room I could get access to, snapping away through the smoke. I felt like I had a purpose, even as I knew I had lost the most important thing in my life outside of myself.

Then, click! The alarms sounded and the firetrucks arrived and the grounds were littered with the yellow dots of firemen and squiggly lines of hoses as they fought the great beast. These brave men and women were able to put the fire out and as I sifted through the remains of our belongings in the room, S. silently appeared in the doorway. He was covered in soot and appeared to have injured his right arm, but he was standing in front of me just as surely as you are reading this now.

I was almost faint with relief. As I took my first step toward him, I heard a sickening crack! then he was gone. A hole in the floor was all that remained.

Walking up to the edge and looking down, all I could see was a blackness that spanned floor after floor, down to forever. Or the basement. Gone.

Then I woke up.
In a pissy mood.
I HATE my subconscious.