“I’m having that dream again,” Ralph thought, “the one where I’m wandering so aimlessly.”
He could never figure out where he even was, whether it was Purgatory or maybe even Hell. All he knew was that whenever he had that dream he was always so bitterly inconsolably sad. By now he was accustomed to it-the bleak lonely terrain, the sense of helplessness and loss. Lately he’d been having the dream so frequently. At the same time his wife Mabel was making funeral arrangements with the undertaker.
“I’m so sick and tired of it all!” Ralph gasped.