You belong in the record store.

 I worked in the record store near my house, Monster Music. And instead of it being a store in the traditional sense, instead it was a house. It was old, lots of wood paneling and old carpet, conversation pits in two of the rooms. A second floor that had a wooden bannister with floral and fruit wallpaper that led up to a loft area which led outside to something that felt like it was out of neverland. Like a tree house. There were ziplines and massive trees to slide down. Inside the house, there were racks and rows of records to look through, but since I worked there, I paid a lot less attention to the records than I did the consumers and the people I worked with. That aspect of it was the preeminent theme of the dream itself. There was a communal sense of employees and the people who worked in and around the store. People slept on the floors of the building, laid around one another in big nests of embrace and laughter. It felt cultish in a way, the empty minds and ideas of the people who were unable to hold discussions, but instead physically leaned and dragged on one another, putting their lips on my ears and their arms around my shoulders and neck. I walked through the ‘store’ trying to manage and help customers, but instead was disrupted by the confusion and distraction of the women trying to touch and hang on me. The light that came into the house was pink and dusty, every ray of light gleaming and holding a weight over the eyes, almost like wincing from blinding brightness or the way early waking can smear and disrupt the senses. I felt liked and appreciated there, like they were happy to have me in the room with them, happy to have me walking through and seeing them, even though I never stopped to speak with many of them.