I dreamed of a dog named Freddie.
He was sweet, and tiny with soft, soft ears.
His snout had a bump, as if he were part pug
and his eyes the deep brown of a beagle.
In my dream I lost Freddie,
and though I had many other things to do
I knew I had to find him.

Through the strange city I marched,
up Escher staircases
and down Dali streets,
people speaking Russian
and Italian and French.
The stygian sky spiraled with stars
spinning like fireworks,
and falling, leaving trails.

I wandered through stores
and saw many things:
hoards of zombies to avoid,
vendors with carts of junk,
gang wars and scuffles,
children running from their parents, laughing.

The fountains were dry
and the rain turned to dust
before hitting the ground.

When I found Freddie, I picked him up,
then hurried to get back
to where I was supposed to be.

But the streets had changed,
moving in random ways,
and though I walked and walked,
it took the rest of the night
and all the next day
to get home.

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