The dream was a mish mash of nonsense symbols: a solitary gazelle on a carousel ride, squids and jellyfish missing some of their parts, and melted crayon blobs. The gazelle's giant horns curved into infinity. Her tiny angel wings stirred the air, wafting up carnival scents: corndogs, cotton candy, sweaty people. I realized I was sitting astride the gazelle. I pressed my legs against her sides and caught my foot on her ribcage. She broke into a run. One hoof was 10 times the size of the other. "A hunting accident," she hollered, referring to the exposed ribs and giant hoof. “It’s not polite to stare.” I averted my eyes upward to see a cluster of basketball-sized grapes. “For my blood sugar,” the gazelle called. “They’re on sale at Publix.” In the distance a cow with a blue horn mooed at spectators and a three-legged moose with a blue nose stared into the distance. The carousel began to spin like a top. I heard myself scream and felt my husband’s hand shaking my shoulder.