Last night, I drempt that we were at the top of the building, the very top floor, looking through the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows. There were thunderheads boiling in the distance, and since we share a passion for thunderstorms, we stood close to watch.

Except the thunder clouds, which were black, not grey, boiled in the sky like molten asphalt. Fire flashed in between the cracks in their black surfaces.

When the clouds reached the building, as we stood together watching them come, we saw that they were not regular clouds. They were solid clouds, and they tore through the side of the building, raking gashes along its side and popping all of the windows on the north face inward in one gigantic, cataclysmic crash.

We were thrown to the floor in a heap, clinging desperatly together. Everything was still. Then the top half of the building shuttered, rocked, and fell silently to the ground. And the whole time we were falling, my dream-mind was thinking, Is this really the way I die?