Dreams reflect the panic generated by our imagination confused from trying to solve the riddle about our existence. Why don't we know know why? The answer lies in the humidor along with all the clutter remaining from previous imaginations. DISCLOSURE: it doesn't matter that we don't know why. The early sci-fi for me included the glass booth that contained electric bolts that healed your damage. Sleep does that and assisted sleep almost eliminates the panic attacks that proliferate when sleep is light in the loafers. Not having to wear the on-demand stud muffin costume seems to divert the imagination away from the Johnsonian Institute which also alleviates any associared panic triggers (and it relieves those get it over with in the morning suggestions).

Some of us are more sensitive to having to spend time with people who don't like us (i.e. - me). In its worse form, we say things like "get the fuck out of my face" to people who just want to make a point //omit Ray Rice references here. It forces some anti-crastination hormones to be released to counter all the pro-crastination thoughts that seem to dominate the solutions runoff. I defer because ferring is hard. That has to go on the To-Do list of self-improvement.

Franz Kafka's parents come into his room one morning to wake him for work, only to discover their son has undergone metamorphosis into a disgusting insect. Upon seeing his son's sorry state, Mr. Kafka runs to his son's desk, grabs a tank of sea invertebrates, and dumps it out the window. Mrs. Kafka, appalled, asks him why he would do that. Mr. Kafka replies, "With Franz like this, who needs anemones?"