She Was Not Quite What You Would Call Unrefined: Part Two Kālarātri Trilogy (Paperback) (ISBN-13: 9781087803364)

They say dreams are metaphors for our lives. Could be. Certainly would explain how strange our dreams are. Although I can never understand why I keep losing my clothes in my dreams. While everyone else goes about their business mostly fully clothed.

Could be dreams are something else entirely. Something special. I have come to believe dreams are windows into parallel universes. Dreams are windows that give us glimpses into the lives of our alternate personas in any number of alternate realities. This would explain why the me in my dreams never seems to be me, exactly. Inevitably the me in my dreams is a variation on the theme of me. Older. Younger. Richer. Stupider. Better looking. More hair. Different. But still me. This interpretation of our dreams would be kinder to the world of our reality. Better looking, maybe, but my alternates in the parallel universes of my dreams are typically dumber, slower, and denser. Or just more obtuse. Sometimes I have parrots. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes I have a car. Sometimes I don't. And when I do, invariably I can never remember where I parked my car. I seem to ride the bus a lot in my dreams. Or trains or boats or planes.

I believe there must be a way to take advantage of these windows into the multiverse. A way for us to manipulate our dreams to allow us to actually travel through the windows of our dreams into these alternate realities. If only our dreams weren't so fleeting, I could chase after the woman of my dreams.

The same woman keeps appearing in my dreams. I always get jarred awake before I discover her name, or even where she lives. But she always returns. Like she's tempting me to follow her. And damn if I don't want to. I just need to figure out how. This woman spends considerable time with my alternate personas, in various alternate realities. I think I would recognize her if I bumped into her on the streets of Seattle, but because I've never seen her in my reality, I don't know who she is.

The woman of my dreams is invariably tall, athletic, vivacious, educated, and charming. I recognize her when I see her in her various manifestations. She never chides me for losing my clothes or forgetting where I parked my car. On occasion, she even has a parrot. Because I seem to know her in these alternate realities I never think to ask her who she is, or even ask her name. We go on grand adventures in these dreams. Trips to Paris. Cross country ski trips. Cruises and camping. Sometimes we live in these huge mansions, so big I get lost in them. I cherish my time with her. I just need to figure out a way to bring her back to my reality.