I'm on a small field — modern lawn maintenance machines have been here before — three friends are along as well. The field is a fenced circle, two soccer goals face each other. The rules of our game: each pair is trying to score a goal... hands and feet are both allowed... and we're playing with one pleasingly new top-o-da-line ball. We play.
Before long two more balls — unfathomably fancy, they are, even better than our original ball — appear on the field. The 2 vs. 2 structure of the game unwinds... for now, 3 of the 4 players can blast shots into undefended goals. This goes on for some time. As the fourth ball-less player struggles to get hold of one, and mimic the others ferocity for "goals".
I become tired. I leave the field. I find a bathroom. While peeing, I notice a picture hanging on the adjacent bathroom mirror (it is hilariously fitting, that of all the images within this dream, who or what this picture captured escapes me, I have no memory at all, but I do know, whatever it was, the response was melting nostalgia. Knees buckled. I sit down).
Time passes. I sit.
I return to the field. Things have changed. Our small field is now full of players, perhaps a few hundred people, barely enough space to freely extend one's arms, and the delightful ostentatious soccer balls are gone. In their place: a small, wet, moldy rag. Reluctantly, I re-enter the field, the lone gate behind me vanishes... we are here to stay, and I want that rag.
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