Okay, got it again. In this dream Jim's not Jim. He's Ben. But not my Ben. This one explains:
„The story I'm writing is called „Riders on the storm". It's about destructive relationships."
He's tapping his thighs to the beat of his song. I laugh. No...
The heat is unbearable and the sun is shining merciless on the roof of my Nightmist Blue 1967 Shelby GT500. The windows are wide open, but I feel as if I'm sitting inside a furnace. A little drop of sweat runs down between my breasts, tickling me. I close my eyes, I'm all alone on the highway. And I have no clue where I am. All I can see is glimmering sand and twirling dust, since hours. I keep the same speed steadily, but it seems I'm not really moving. Which might be the fault of my beautiful Blue Lady, she keeps on making strange noises.
But also because of the fact that I'm drunk, again.
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I sigh deeply. Blow against my bangs, the coolness of my breath feels good. Anyway, Lynn had warned me. She told me I should've waited with visiting her until the weekend. The temperatures would fall, weatherman said. Maybe a little rain. I'm not sure if the desert could EVER cool down. Except for the nights, of course, but I don't dare to drive at nighttime. A lone woman and also I feel insecure with seeing in the dark.
And I did not wait, because I had to leave the fucking mess at home.
Something dark at the roadside is taking my attention. It appeared suddenly and I lift my foot from the throttle, slowing automatically down. But the „thing" is still miles away. So I kick the throttle again, my Blue Queen is bitchy again, she stutters. I curse silently, she speeds up with a loud roar. Good girl! If the „thing" is a hitchhiker, I won't stop, I think to myself and I turn on the player - „Roadhouse Blues" by „The Doors". I love them. Jim Morrison sadly died the year I was born, what would I give to see him live on stage! While I'm thinking about my idol I realize I'm getting nearer to the figure at the roadside. It's a tall guy with a fur- stuffed leather jacket. Something in his appearance is strangely familiar. I hold my breath...this can't be!
I pinch my eyes, but the flickering heat makes it difficult to see clear. The guy has a fluffy beard and shoulderlength, wavy hair...He waves at me. No! I cannot pick up a random guy! Even if he looks like Jim fucking Morrison! He disappears in the rear mirror. I watch him shrugging in disappointment. Why is he wearing a leather jacket, in the middle of the desert? He must sweat like an animal and without water he would probably die of thirst!
He's jogging towards my car. What? I realize I stopped without being aware of it. Damn me and fucking Johnny Walker! I should've stayed sober! The guy has nearly reached me, my heart is racing. I take the gas pistol out of the glove department. But I'm quite sure that this is just my imagination right now.
The guy stops at my co driver window and leans over. This scene is familiar, too!
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