Mr. Bullet
Last night I dreamt that I was running down the halls, late for work, carrying a stuffed toy armadillo named Mr. Bullet.
There were other elements to the dream. Mismatched shoes, one of which was a white Chuck. Police escort of some prisoners. 
The purchase of tonic water, two bottles, very important. Chopping up both a credit card and my employee I.D. Let’s be honest though, all the other elements dim considerably in the cosmic radiance of Mr. Bullet.
I can still feel the fur. I could draw him for you if my artistic skills weren’t along Order of the Stick caliber. I can smell the slightly moist dog slobbered scent, and the indelible imprint is there…
…and I want to know why.
The awesome dreams I have had over the decades have been legion. I fly a lot. I sit up in bed and click my fingers, saying, “Doom.” And I’ve been told I can deliver a pretty mean karate chop. Some of those dreams imprinted, but most slithered away all too soon, as is the custom with such a transient grasp on reality.
I don’t like it. Plain and simple. I want control over which dreams walk with me until my grave. Tall order, I know…but somebody make it happen. Instead, I’m stuck with Mr. Bullet. Ahh, who knows, maybe he’ll be flying and wearing white Chucks tonight.