I had a dream last night.  Sort of serious, but pretty absurd.  More irking than anything, was the tone.  I was walking in a part of the city where there are nightly a couple taco stands on each adjoining street.  Outside the stand, immigrants—Mexican, I'm assuming—stood around, some waiting for the bus, some just poor.  It was nighttime.  I walked past a few people sitting on the sidewalk into a taco booth, and inside, the booth turned into a little restaurant shack, like walking into a psychic teller's spot.  Inside it wasn't tacos anymore, but more authentic Mexican food, like a big brown bowl of soup with what looked like the stomach linings of a cow.  To my left was people behind a big metal pot cooking—there was a lot of heat.  I was taking up space and was tall and hunched over.  To my right, some small tables filled with people eating.  No one spoke English; people were laughing.  I couldn't understand the prices, and I felt people talking about me, all near me.  My pocket was tight and I couldn't take out my cash without everybody looking—a twenty and a fiver rang clearly for everybody to see in the crumpled mess with the singles.  I felt everybody around me in the booth; I couldn't understand what they were saying.  I didn't know how much I payed and I was carrying the soup with both hands trying to get out of the booth.  I didn't know where I could eat it because on the sidewalk everyone was either sitting or near me.  I went towards an old blind woman—a blond woman, if you will—who stood with her stick in between the trash and the booth, hoping she wouldn't notice me eating; and when I put my bowl on top of the trash can, I looked down and noticed it was empty save for the remnants of brown discoloration.  Someone had stolen the soup inside my bowl.  They had stolen it, I thought, the people who I couldn't understand.  I became resentful and remembered them laughing.  They must have known what happened.  I turned back enraged getting through the people sitting around me to go back inside the booth where they were laughing at me.  I hated them.  Just then a beat up truck crashed into an old van on the street and the van went flying into the booth and I felt good.  But then I realized the van went into the store window next to the booth, and the people in the booth were unhurt, and I got spiteful again.  I was trying to get through again to inside the booth, where I couldn't explain anything to them but that my bowl was empty.