*Dream Journal*

If you want more intense dreams, do this:

1. Wake up.
2. Do something that exhausts you.
3. Go back to sleep in minutes.

This doesn't always work. (What does?) But when it does, you're plunged headlong into a phantasm of your greatest desires! A diorama of life's greatest delights, compleat with marching band that spans ten football fields and your very own angelic choir… which is what you're about to hear.

Maybe you should go to bed reading a page of your favorite book — electronic equivalents accepted — leave that thought and let it linger. You know those computer file importers? This is kinda like that, you can bring stuff into the dreamworld with you. Formatting isn't 100% intact, but at least you feel as you're floating. On your back, headed in that one direction. This time you're the bowling ball.

Things don't have to make sense to experience them.

Leveration = levitation + revelation

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A joke features assorted components. Sometimes humor involves creating awkwardness in the audience before breaking that tension, resulting in the punch line. Like music, timing matters. Repetition for familiarity adds structure.

On occasion, Earthlings deploy humor which parodies "high art". For example, a fresh fall fashion line about being connected in a high-tech world, wherein the models have satellite dish hats and skirts which resemble protective smartphone cases. Or playing something so dastardly and repetitive for the dancefloor, labeling it "minimal" (or disemvoweling it as "mnml"), then seeing who strokes their chin and faux-gets-it. But you know inside, they're all "WTF!??" and hoping this joke will end, because not only is it not very funny, but it's on them. After all, repetition for familiarity adds structure. *rimshot*

(Tomot Aubergine once declared, "Take the piss to make the bliss." His contemporaries were none the wiser.)

DJing with appliances can be performance art. Whether it's a blender, toaster, or making a GPS unit rap as you do left turns through "the club", utilitarian self-expression as a meta-extroverted function of postmodern, anti-isolationist mad libs. It's rich hottin'.

See that comedienne over there? She's telling her joke. If we make our way to Table #4 in a few moments, we'll be in on it. That throbbing shuffle at one colon fourty-nine of the way in? In Roviet Sussia, glass phills up you! *rimshot*

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Glendal O. Morridge declared: "Alternate realities give us hope."

And it was so.

What do you call a suicide without a body? In some of these happening, said recipient of self-inflicted pain never experienced death. They were whisked away, rather practically, to a new life, a new world. Where their social anxiety and lonerism was made redundant by the addition of a family. Fake at first, but when emotions tell you, "This is my life and I find it fulfilling and with purpose," isn't that a reality worth living for?

(Morridge Porridge Empire thinks so.)

Psychological profiling matched these lost souls together. Despondent parents grieving over the untimely loss of a child, juggling the idea to adopt but never acting on it, would thus be placed with young ones to love and care for. And these young ones who had been bullied on schoolgrounds (now so far away) or neglected by their genetic own would now find a beloved, beautiful parental path. Pets? The Morridges have that covered too, abducting abused cats and dogs, bringing them a'here in dwellings from white picket fences from subterranean caves. A utopia it was not; merely the extension of practical love.

Maybe after your own life's dreams find themselves at the end of their opuses – you need something motivational, inspirational to continue on as a seed in a fresh slate, a person you've raised to squeeze life like a big juicy watermelon, as you've. Then you can fade into that wild sunset, surrounded by those who you love, who love you.

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