I am drowning in a quicksand of matchbox cars. The dream is exquisite in its clarity. The cool metal, the chips in the finish where my small boy has crashed them into one another rough against my cheeks. The dull click and clatter as dozens, hundreds, thousands of them spill down over me. I can feel the smooth plastic tires pressing against my eyes. The fear of opening my mouth to scream and swallowing some small vehicle chokes me as I grope for wakefulness.
As the dream’s gravity sucks me deeper into a sea of miniatures, pinning my arms above my head, my hands reach for a surface which slips further and further over my head with every second. My legs cannot kick against the weight of so much metallic sand. I can breathe, but the tang of gradually warming aluminum and enamel taints each breath. I am afraid.