I dream of Dima

I read my dream diary today. I wrote in it on and off for around 6 months, mostly off judging by the amount of dreams recorded, and it is a pile of diamonds in the rough, though quite soft to sleep on. It reads like a collection of sci-fi microstories. Some of the stuff doesn't ring any bells, some sounds awesome and vague memories bubble to the surface, some was written with the wrong side of the pen and requires a seeing paw dog to read, and the rest are written in Dima's* handwriting and will probably never be deciphered. Still, you've got to keep those scientists busy or they get restless, and if there's anything I've learned from sci-fi movies, it's that scientists with free time inevitably end up responsible for a nuclear/chemical/fashion apocalypse.

Favorite quote out of the successfully (and possibly correctly) unscrambled notes:

"Took time slices of two apples to make sure one was traveling."

If only I'd taken a time slice of that dream and stuck it between the pages of the dream diary.

*One of my early childhood traumas. Grandma Mila was teaching me math. I had the makings of a great mathematician, evident in the fact that I wrote all over the page in anywhere but between the lines and all in some futuristic alphabet. Grandma Mila patiently tried to show me the light:

"You write like Dima and Dima writes like an idiot!"

Since then, as much as we love Dima, we can't help but abuse him verbally at each and every opportunity:

"That's not how you cut watermelon! You're holding the knife like Dima!"
"How'd you like my poem?" "You sure Dima didn't write it?"
"Look, everyone's a Dima when they first start, but don't worry, you'll get better."

He'll understand, once it goes viral and he gets his cut of the profits.