Over winter break I read, In Cold Blood by Truman Capote. I haven’t been able to stop having dreams about the two killers, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith. The other night I had a dream I was in my Grandparent’s home (which was odd because both died over 10 years ago.) I was stuck with Hickock and Smith by the front door, waiting for the unknown. I thought I had died in my sleep and gone to hell, but then a power of the universe spoke to us. We were given an assignment to solve a murder mystery inside of the house. Even while dreaming I was able to recognize the irony. I can remember going through my Father’s childhood room and finding treasures from my Grandfather’s career as a firefighter. Ultimately I decided to ditch the two, steal my Grandmother’s cookbook, a gallon of Irish whiskey and a box full of silver 50 cent coins with JFK’s face on it. Then I woke up.