Dreams over breakfast

“…and that’s when the black dog finished its story, climbed off my chest and let me continue down the railroad tracks.” Dave said around a forkful of bacon.
“Whenever you dream you get déjà vu, right?” Michael, his old friend, asked.
“Kind of. I figure it’s symbolic, I get run over while crossing a street.”
“That’s a decidedly odd way to look at it. What if it’s literal, and you have been recruited into this ‘Nightmare Lord’s’ army?”
“Way to play shrink, Mr. Anthropologist. Then I’ll get hit by a two dimensional car while crossing a four dimensional street. No matter how you say it, I, dreamland’s last hope, am as good as dead.”
“Check please,” Michael called, then turned to look at his friend. “You need to pull yourself out of this rut. I thought you grew out of unremitting pessimism in High School.”
“I did. This is realism.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “There’s a difference?”
“Of course,” Dave quipped, “The wisdom that comes with age.”
“Two years isn’t ‘Wisdom with age!’”
“Close enough. Check’s here.”

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