I don’t get a name in this story. Hell, why would I? I’m not the one having the dream. The one having the dream, he has a name. I’m just a freak his subconscious cooked up. How do you like that? I don’t even get an identity, I’m just made of pieces his mind put together. You ask me, that’s not right. You ask me, I drew the short stick in a bad way. But who asks me? I’m not even a character. The dreamer’s the character. He probably thinks this whole thing is about him. He can think what he wants, I don’t care.
It’s a desert, this place. Flat, red, dry. There’s an asphalt road going off into the distance both ways. Is it east and west? Is it north and south? Hard to say. This is dream country. There are no directions. Looking at a blue sky overhead, no clouds. He doesn’t dream about clouds, I guess. He does dream about gas stations though, that’s where I am. If you have a road in the middle of the desert, you need a gas station. I suppose that makes sense.