Long-Lost Friends

I dreamed my wife and I were a couple of sleuths operating in an area of Newark called Bayside (no relation to the neighborhood in Queens). It was effectively an island that way due east of the Ironbound out in the middle of a bay, and you had to drive across a narrow two-lane bridge over the water to get there. There was a serial killer on the loose; he was dragging folks down into the sewers. When we had driven over there we were greeted by a detective from the local precinct who looked like Nosferatu dressed up like a pimp, all motley peacock and terrible lines cracking across his ghoulish visage. One would've thought he was the serial killer, but no, in fact he was one of the good guys. I drew a picture of him in a sketchbook I had brought along; I probably could still reproduce it, if I wanted to.

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I dreamed we were meeting two couples we knew up at a winery up on a hill. Everything was dry and a not unbeautiful yellow. One of the couples, who had actually been married at a winery in New York State, had arrived there before us. The wife and I went to great them, but although they were staring right at us, they move delicately through the crowd away from us, almost floating, their faces betraying no real affect, ghostly. Our other friends arrived and went together to try to follow them, but they continued drifting away.