I’m with my sister on the beach. We’ve been fighting lately, but we apparently made peace in my dreams. She puts on her sunglasses, slathers herself with cream and proceeds to sunbathe like a lizard; meanwhile I stay fully clothed because I’m shy.

Times flies and it’s soon time to go back home, she has to pay for our train tickets because I only have five bucks on me. On the train I’m reading a Mickey Mouse comic strip, my sister reads from over my shoulder and chatters on about the artist, apparently a favorite of hers. “See how Goofy really moves like a dog,” she says enthusiastically. Horace is buff, like veins bulging ripped for who knows what reason.

I keep on reading, there’s a two pages interview with a Spanish-speaking comic book writer named Ricardo Pollo. I start chuckling uncontrollably, my sister asks why so I explain: the guy has a son who was born on January the second, and thus he named the poor kid “One Two Pollo.” In the dream, I find that utterly hysterical.