I am in a strange sort of bunker. The other day I had been going through an album of family pictures. The bunker is actually the bar in the basement of 39 Ivy Street! I am lying on the counter in a prone position; the atmosphere is one of war. Sandbags and timber abound. The sky is eerily overcast. Bombs begin to fall. Not the mortars of past dreams but rather some kind of heavy artillery. A sharp thunder follows the initial detonation, as if there were some sort of dual explosive, or perhaps a new barrage tactic. I throw myself over and fall to the ground. Cowering under the counter I wait for the inevitable. Within seconds a shell crashes down upon the spot I had occupied and not too hastily vacated. Debris flies; dirt clods and splinters of broken wood shower down. I recall the thought of being randomly lucky. The dream becomes unclear at this point.