paraluge

From two days ago: I only remembered a couple of (probably related) snippets of the naptime dreams upon writing them down just afters. First, I was on the south side of a largish town on the east-facing slope of a mountain, standing on the sidewalk of a street that was higher up than most of the town, so that I could see a lot of it; except that the air was thick with cool light-gray fog, and the visibility of the view was nonzero but quite small. I could make out a waterspout, due north of me, extending down from a thicker white cloudbase into the town’s streets; it was quiet and rotated slowly and didn’t seem to be actually damaging anything. Then, at, I think, the top of the hill, maybe pretty near where I just described, was a station for a kind of wide-slope luge, which I entered on the south side; the building itself was like a shooting gallery, with a horizontal opening facing out toward the very steep but eventually shallowing-out downslope, which was covered with packed snow — the opening was the start for the lugers, who were clipped into snowboards and were wearing parachutes and bodysuits, and would slide down the slope (the snowboards not having a clear role) when let go by a gate apparatus inside the opening. I wasn’t dressed to partake in the luge; I just peered through the opening and then wended my way out of the north side of the building, which was parking-garage-like. I also vaguely recollect at another point being in a large living room or something of a private house, also on the side of a hill, but no details.

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