I dreamed that I was in a college class that took place in a space shuttle. The space shuttle had a classroom attached to it and every week we would fly into space, with the professor steering the space shuttle, and his female assistant holding the actual class. Obviously, the class mostly consisted of young college students, but there also were two adult men in the room: me and some punk guy with dreadlocks. Not the dirty, unwashed kind of “punk guy”, but rather the type you might run into in all these social and education circles; the type who works in an orphanage and with drug-addicted teenagers – as a street worker, social worker, community organizer. That type. Now, whenever the teacher asked a question she always picked two of the girls she seemed to be particularly fond of, whereas whenever I raised my hand and wanted to state my opinion, she ignored me. After a while I became infuriated over being ignored and concluded that only brutal violence can help me now. Standing up and angrily walking towards the teacher, I was blocked by some cuck: skinny, glasses, prematurely balding, pale and sickish; somehow managing to look both older and younger than he probably was. I pushed him aside and glanced over to the other adult guy in the room: the punk smiled and gave me a nod. Apparently, he, too, came to the conclusion that some good old fashioned violence was necessary now. We just wanted to attack when our space shuttle suddenly began to shake tremendously, and out of the front window we could look down over a crowded street scene. Somehow, the people walking on the street were both humans and yet not human. For a while, I was puzzled over that but then came to realize that the puzzles of life are no reason not to violently do what is to be done. Then I woke up.
