that you are supposed to interpret things in your dreams as symbols; lets try that out.
I, shackled to middle class success, using it as some sort of carriage, rode and nearly collided into Freedom. Freedom rode a wild past, and we both stopped as we came perpendicular, me nearly t- boning her. We both stopped, my automobile, her majestic beast.
Rolling down my window, I popped my head out the side of my 4 door American Dream machine, and starred at the nostalgic beauty Freedom rode. How strange it appeared, neat, yet glistening with the hard work it must have known. Yet happy, undeniably so. And why not? It must have been comparing its peacefulness to the disorder it was surrounded with. But that was before I saw her, amiss in the loud screams of those enslaved by industry, ordering burgers, yelling at pedestrians, ignoring their journey, completely consumed with their assigned destinations. When I saw her, and she saw me, we both began to cry.
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