I am called to go to Dustin Hoffman's house. He sends a limo. I sit in the back, and all the windows are smoked glass and I feel like I'm in a box. I can't see out. We get there, after I type in all the sensations I experience, like outside noises or when we round a curve in my mini computer. It'll make a great scene in a movie someday. The door opens and an older woman, an employee of Dustin's, reaches in to assist me out of the car. I am standing and a woman is on each side gripping my arms. I say, "Let go of me." They don't. I insist, getting very angry. I repeat, "Let go of me," escalating in anger, over and over. Finally I shake them off. We get in an elevator and I push #2, the usual floor I go when I visit Dustin's house. But we go up to the top floor and I see through a glass window that we are now at an attic toy room, a secret place where he is himself. I get out and Dustin dressed as a child on a small tricycle toy comes putting up. I keep trying to see him as an adult in child's clothing, but he looks like a child with an adult face. His employees are playing games with him and I feel sad for an older woman who is talking baby talk. How demeaning, but I also admire her acting abilities. Then Dustin groans in pain and lays down on the floor. I get on my knees by him and bend down and kiss him gently on the lips. He has a migraine headache and is in terrible pain. I whisper, "This had better be real, or you are dead meat." He smiles weakly, acknowledging he knows that.