I run from the top of the bank of escalators. I run. There's another woman running on the other side of the corridor. We are underground. We reach the part where the ceiling is glass. The ocean is racing us across the glass ceiling. We run. She is not connected to the web of which I am a part. I am in a movement, part of a revolution. This is the apocalypse. Because of my connection, I have some responsibility towards her. I won't abandon her to this fear.

In the dream, high on the realization I've dreamt this before. This trope is part of my for so long unremembered dream universe. I am part of some clandestine integrated whole. White robes. A longing for transformation in history.

Small table. Social. English speakers talking about their life in Costa Rica. Their expat scene holds nothing for me. Slide into daylight ruminations on urban versus rural as home for me, longing to live in a country in the South.