It’s nighttime, scattered streetlamps light the park. I’m playing basketball inside a chain fence, which holds a small, painted basketball court with graffiti-covered boundary lines caked onto the concrete court. I play basketball by myself in the park, soaring and slamming the ball through the metal rim (just as I do in real life).

On a beautiful dunk, I hang on the rim a moment too long, and pull down the glass backboard. A stream of glass falls on the back of my neck cutting me up something awful. I feel behind my head and my hand returns to my face covered in blood and fragments of glass. The back of my shirt feels wet with more than my sweat, and I begin making my way over to the public telephone at the end of the park.

On the floor near a park bench, I find a black cape. I pick it up, probably with thoughts of stemming the flow of blood, and wrap it around the back of my neck. I feel a hood flopping on my back and pull it up over my head. Two pointed ears poke up from the top of the hood and I realize it’s a Batman hood.

With the hood still in place, I make my way to the pay phone and dial the emergency number. The phone rings and a lady picks up. The world spins and I fear a loss of consciousness before I bring control back by banging my ear with the earpiece.

“Emergency, anyone there?” a high-pitched female asks patiently.

“I’ve been cut all across the back of my neck. I need some help.”

Has problems on the phone; tries to give address; a gang comes past and I join them. They’re talking about a fight. I’m still losing blood, and my head is light. Is everything a dream? I know I need a doctor, but I can’t shake the gang, who drag me along, ignoring my blood and my bat costume.

I forget the rest of the dream. It was much better this morning, when I should written it down. Now, as it aged and pieces of it dropped away from me, it seems not nearly as exciting as the movie-esque story I had this morning. For shame.