I dreamt the camera was broken.  I even dreamt that I woke from that dream, and the camera was still broken.  Vandalized by some 'untouchable', someone about whom I know nothing, someone who got ahold of my camera when I wasn't watching, at some unknown moment before I discovered the damage.  Some anonymous culprit, who had no care or comprehension of how excessively important this little toy has become to me, broke up all of its insides, leaving everything but the battery. 

Still, it worked a little.  There was a sunrise just beginning, it was still night but night was clearly over.  There was a beautiful moon, and gorgeous fleeting clouds fled from their photogenic opportunity as I fumbled with my dear one's settings.  One unsatisfactory picture I got on one side of my camera's memory stick, then it was full.  But it should take eighty.  Then I looked inside to see what was wrong, and I found the damage.  I flipped the stick, and gathered all the pieces back together the way they were.  I got one more. 

The camera is all in one piece, I just checked it.  And there are no images from my dream left in my camera's memory. 

The dream was not about my camera only, though that is the part that scared me.  The dream began with waiting, idly lingering on a street somewhere for something that never came.  A parade, perhaps, or a movie star.  I waited longer than is reasonable, as is my way, until there was no one else left waiting with me.  No one but Irene, who was waiting much longer than she wanted to, for me, I guess.  When I rose to leave, she said, "Here, let me give you a ride on my bike.  You sit on the seat, and I will pedal."  My own bicycle was absent from this dream, and for some odd reason, it wasn't missed. 

Her offer to help seemed more to serve her needs than mine, and she seemed annoyed that I had taken so much time to finally decide to go.  So I said, "No," and this pissed her off even more.  I would have gone the way that she was going, but she was waiting there like a huntress with a trap.  It seemed to me that if I went that way, I would have had to say, "I'm grateful," and I would have had to ride her bike with her, even if I didn't want to.  So I walked the other way, a detour from my goal, a destination I did not think about much in the dream, so I don't know where it was, or is.  I walked the other way, eventually tussling with my camera in some residential yard where, looking up, I saw some beautiful images that I was unable to record. 

A black man lived in the house which possessed the yard where I had stopped to make my pictures of the sky.  I assumed the resident of this house would be angry at the presence of a suspicious individual with coat and bag and camera parts all strewn about.  And even though it was pre-dawn, he stirred inside his house, and finally came out to examine my activities.  He was not mad.  He was about age sixty.  He assented by his silence to my presence there.  Another stirred inside his house, and he went in.  I guess his wife was late for work, and when she came out she took no notice of us there.  By 'us' I mean myself and my old friend John, who had suddenly appeared, as if he'd been there all along, waiting quietly for me to get done whatever I seem to need to do, as is his way.  These things happen in dreams. 

Now the black man bids his wife adieu, and she speeds off, in a car; she seems only marginally aware that we are there.  The black man sets a chair a bit too close to where I am crouching on the ground, and he begins the slow ritual of revealing that his interest in me involves his cock. 

I don't try to dream like this, not always, anyway.  He teased, just like the porn-boys do until eventually, at long last, they finally whip it out.  They reach inside their pants, which bulge impressively, and move the contents to and fro', and linger hesitatingly...  But the black man in my dream, he never got it out.  I wasn't too aroused just then, even though I was just waking up.  But I could be, I thought, while still in my dream.  He's an older man, but that's OK because black skin never shows its age.  Besides, that monster coming out is big, and it is eyeing me. 

Then I woke, and now I write, and it occurs to me about that elder black man in my dream; I would have ridden his bike eagerly.