from The Introvert's Guide to Dreams
Your father stands at the opposite end of the aisle. Because there’s an overwhelming pain in your stomach, you stumble toward him. You yell. Your father turns to you. He is not your father. He pulls a knife through the air. You feel yourself mirror him. There is no knife. In one deft movement, the man sinks his knife into his stomach and glides it from one side to the other, and a sting ribbons its way across your torso. You fall to your knees; your intestines spill out. You look up. There is no man. There are no intestines sloshing out of you. You stand and turn around. Your father fills a bag with coffee. There is no bag. The coffee spills all over the floor.