The second dream

I wasn't me. I don't think I was me. Well at least I hope I wasn't me.

I was an older gentleman who owned a rather large and fancy victorian house. The inside was all dark wood and red decor. There was a staircase that seemed to be the main staging ground of the dream, with an old fashioned lift going up the middle. Now the individual elements of the dream are fuzzy, and that's probably for the best. Violence, sex, murder, dragging bodies and leaving trails of blood on the red carpet. I remember that each time the police came I was nonchalant, with a "I told you so" attitude. I didn't even pretend to care, and neither did they. I'm not sure how many people I killed, or if I killed my daughter when she suspected the truth, but it was certainly interesting.

As I said, they were all very different dreams.