A month ago I dreamt of the end of the world and being in a farmer’s field with my family, a few others whose faces I don’t recall. We were approaching a house in search of supplies, but then we saw cars start to come down the driveway, and we knew we were in danger. Crouching and running back to the road fast in the tall grass, I found a palm-sized red notebook and then a black one. When I looked inside I couldn't tell if the writing was a child’s or an old person’s. It was big and unsteady. I carried the books back to where we were living, in a bunker of some kind. They were trying to figure out what we are going to do. I was trying to tell them about the books that I found in the field. They contained the most sacred truths. I tried to read it to them, but nobody listened and I've forgotten how to talk any louder. The feeling of panic from not being heard woke me up.