Sitting in the dark, palms pressed to my eyes

I slept another nearly twelve hours. I would appreciate it more if they hadn't been filled with nightmares of dispossession—discovering that my fictional apartment had been rented out from underneath me and all my books sold or thrown out because the landlords thought I hadn't been personable enough when I signed the lease, having to chase a frightened cat through the streets of Harvard Square, desperately afraid I wouldn't catch him before he disappeared or darted into the street. The good news is that I did and I carried him firmly back to the car and I put him in the car purring and he was safe. I also feel it was a good show on dream-me's part that I was not at all polite to the landlord who explained that he should have known it was a red flag when I didn't joke or smile during the interview, because I wasn't going to bring the kind of personality they wanted to the building. Mind you, I had returned from a trip to discover that my apartment was no longer my apartment and now the offices of some kind of tech-y business. My subconscious has opinions about capitalism, I guess. I mean, so does the rest of me.