The dream started fine. I was on a vacation by the ocean. But then this rocket, intended for some Elon Musk mission, exploded over the sky somewhere North. Then, this big passenger plane landed on a deserted road right near me and I could see inside and I could see terrorists taking over the plane. Nobody else was around. I knew I had to try to stop it from taking off. I was looking for things I could throw into the jet engine. Then I woke up. On the couch. Slept too long. But I was still tired. And it was Sunday. I wanted to write. But how can I write in such a scary world, where things explode, and the things that don't are stolen? I'm getting old. The things I used to care about, I don't anymore. I feel more comfortable in my own skin, now, even as it ages, and itches. Time may heal, but time also wounds.