What I dream.  I dream about having friends.  I dream about not being able to do things with friends.  I dream about travelling far away.  I dream about looking for something and not finding it.  I dream about a photo from 130 years ago of a home where none of my ancestors ever lived.  I dream of a bank across the street from an empty lot.  Tall buildings pushed up against each other next to a long, ancient road on a flat landscape.  Just one town over from where I live.  I meet a banker.  She can not help me with the photo; where was it taken?  What happened to the buildings that were in it?  Is that the same road out there that is here on the photo?  She doesn’t know.  No one does.  Back home, I go through the school building.  Why am I here?  What am I doing?  My friends swarm around me as we all head down the stairs.  None of them seem to recognize me.  Then one guy smiles and waves.  “We’re just going to the bar,” he says.  I can’t go.  I can’t do those things any more.  I have things to do any way.  Searching, searching.  What am I even looking for?

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