“You died in a hotel in 1984”

I’m laying in bed in my apartment, and there’s a knock at the front door. It’s dark, so as I walk to the front door to see who’s there, I see white light coming in from all sides around the door. “Must be one heck of a light out there,” I think. I open the door, and my wife (who I’m separated from) is standing there, and this white glow is all around her.

I don’t even get a chance to think or say hello, and she says, “You died in a hotel in 1984. Everything since then has been a dream.”

With this, I instantly wake up in my bed. My body is shaking like crazy, but I jump up, look back and think, “I am NOT getting back into that bed tonight.”

As I walk around the apartment debating about whether I should try to sleep on the floor or just go into work at four o’clock in the morning, I remember ... I did spend a lot of time in a hotel in 1984.

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