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Paper Thief

Morning of March 15, 2015. Sunday.

Although I feel somewhat as I do in reality with regard to some aspects of my dream journalism, I seem to be living back in the small squarish room on Loomis Street. There is a desk and large typewriter set up in the southeast corner. I am not quite sure of the dynamics of my living arrangement although I am at least somewhat aware of my present real-life status, including my wife and family, but am not lucid in any way. There is also no association with my relatives or older sister whose house it actually is in reality. The manual typewriter is about three times as high as the portable manual one I used to use in reality (mostly in Florida) and is a much older model; probably an Underwood from the 1920s.

I am aware of writing out at least three dreams in the typed summary format I used to do on plain white paper back when around ages eleven to seventeen (in addition to the far more detailed handwritten entries where I actually fit four lines of printed writing between two lines of notebook paper as well as usage of the additional miniature black binder for the index). (However, also in reality, there was a point where my mother had bought me a very large gold-colored box of expensive white paper which also featured a large watermark on each sheet, which seemed a bit odd to me, as it was just slightly too noticeable - almost like undesirable oil marks, thus I preferred the cheaper paper, though still used the other.)

As I am working and organizing a few things, an unknown younger female (about twenty) is in the room. I have no idea who she is or where she came from. She is dressed in old-fashioned clothes. She goes to my typewriter and takes all the blank paper I have left from the box. I complain about this but she eventually leaves the room, and heads out the back door. The stack of paper she takes is about an inch or more high.

When I go outside (in what would otherwise be the residential backyard on Loomis Street) it seems to suddenly be in the 1800s and it seems to be a farming community for the most part, though some generic wooden buildings flow off to my right to the horizon (like something out of “Gunsmoke”). I find myself calling the female insane (mostly only after the people do not respond to my reporting her as stealing from me) and that something has to be done. No one else believes she is a thief or has any issues even though it is clear that she does. I tell an older (unknown) male that the responsibility falls on him whenever she gets up to more mischief (there is a vague association with Salem possibly regarding the late 1600s though that is not very defined). They seem to not know what I am talking about at all yet I still rant on and on until I wake up. I do not know where the “paper thief” went; I only see different people at this point, mostly on the right of my perspective with the male I am yelling at to my left. Curiously, the idea that I have apparently traveled back in time does not even dawn on me in-dream at the time.

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