Last night I dreamed I was adrift on some 1960's vacation beach for upper-middle-class Helens and Richards and their teenage kids. Girl from Ipanema was playing in the background. Maybe it was a French beach, maybe Brazilian. Private yachts were lined up in a row to one side. I could see their sterns, but they looked like they had been designed by Ford or Chrysler, all curvy lines and lots of heavy chrome. To the other side, down the beach was the hotel. A pretty girl was trying to seduce me. Poor thing. She's wasting her time. I'm wearing what looks like a robe. Maybe I'm a young Arab boy. Okay, France then. She really wants to seduce me and is trying ardently to take me back to the hotel. The scene changes and I'm in someone's basement. We're getting ready for school. Prep school. I'm dressed in expensive preppy clothing I would never personally own. It's not my house. I've spent the night. The Richard comes downstairs and looks at me confusedly then shrugs. Guess he doesn't care that I'm here or why. I feel like his son should be here somewhere and we go to school together, but he's not here. I go outside and get into a little roadster, like a drop-top MG and leave. I'm back at the vacation beach. It's not a very nice beach. It's not sand. It's all rounded stones. Pretty, but not comfortable to walk on or lay out. Girl from Ipanema is still playing. So strange.