“Don’t worry, I’m a professional oneiromancer,” she assured him, the overwhelming scent of patchouli wafting from her tie-dyed tank-top as she pushed him to lay back, making Greg wonder why it is so many people thought the oil smelled like anything other than unwashed armpits. He was victorious in overcoming the urge to sneeze from the smell and, though he had reservations about his girlfriend’s recommendation about visiting Blossom Godfrey, Dream Doctor, he laid down and told himself he might as well give it a whirl. Nothing else had worked to get rid of the nightmares, maybe an oneirowhatchamacallit might.

© Michael Raven

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