I dreamt that Jimmy, Laura, my mother-in-law and I were all going on a camping trip, like the Pinnacles trip I just took with them. Only Jimmy had an orange Volkswagen bus (like my mother-in-law) and he was driving us all. So I packed up. Then, I started reading a biography of somebody. It was just some random person somebody wrote a biography of. It wasn't anybody special, nobody strange, nobody unique or remarkable, or even famous. Just some idiot with a name like John Smith. And they had written this huge fourteen-hundred-plus biography of this totally random person. Yet, it was fascinating. I'd never seen anybody devote so much work to something so completely worthless. The author of this biography said, in the introduction, that he didn't think his book was worth writing. In fact, he thought that it was a total waste of time. The author never justified himself in chronicling every half-second of this guy's life. His source, said the author, was this man's diaries, which he had kept from the age of one day (quite a feat!) until after he died (another feat)! I read it, completely absorbed in the trivialities of this completely trivial person's day to day existence, until I looked up at the clock, and saw that it was four in the morning. 'Shit!' I thought to myself. 'I guess I had better stay up all night.' I began to feel very tired, like I ought to go to sleep, but then I decided against it. I walked around in my kitchen until five or so. Then I went outside and watched the sun rise. Then I woke up. It was around six-thirty, just about when I settled down into 'bed' in my dream to 'go back to sleep'. In my dream, I looked at the clock and said, 'ah! Six thirty. Now I can sleep!' It was so vivid, that when my alarm went off a few minutes later, I actually said 'Shit! Now I'll never get any sleep!' It took a little bit of head-clearing before I realized that I had in fact slept, and that I needed to get up and take a shower. What clued me in was the fact that we weren't going on a camping trip.