Blue_Opossum

Morning of January 2, 1972. Sunday.



I am apparently a member of a group of detectives. I seem much older and I do not seem implied to be my conscious self. I am riding in the front seat on the right and I am not the driver. The driver is an unknown male with a celebrity essence, though unfamiliar. We are in what may be a police car, but from the 1920s or 1930s.

We are supposed to prevent a biplane from taking off from the runway of a small airport. Soon, it is headed right for us. Oddly, we are also copied into a scene in front of us at somewhat of a distance. That is, we are watching “our” car on the runway ahead, with another us (yet somehow still us). I am thinking “we” might be struck by the biplane if we keep going but it is not that fearful. (The sense of anticipation is not that vivid.) The biplane lifts from the runway a few times, but only just a little, and is back down.

Eventually stopping, and the other us no longer present, it turns out that the biplane is only a painted mural (or perhaps a low-set billboard) so it was never really a threat. We get out of the car. The biplane is now facing the left side of the car and it seems we may be on a normal city street. I feel like saying something but I do not.

---