My son, who has a dreamy mind, goes somewhere every night. I tell him about the trouble that seems to creep up on him.
Yes, where does he go in the middle of the night?
Oh, he's dead. I said something.
When I woke up in the morning, my son was gone.
Since then, she has been searching for her dreamy son.
Where did he sleep today?
In the trunk?
In the basement?
Or a dustbin?
Worrying about it gives me indigestion, though.
I'm going to sleepwalk. It doesn't seem true. I can't shut up if you ask me to.
When it's quiet at night, I'll just pop the table and kick it away.
I give him a compliment and this is what I get.
I go out like my son's dreamwalker.
He's a real killjoy. I'm going to make him kill you.
I'm going to catch him in the act.
He tries to run away in fear.
Gah, ah, ah, a desperate scream.
He's one step away from gasping for breath.
You're dead. You've got to be kidding me.
I'm not dead, honey.
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