I wake once more, wondering why I should dream an entire, and rather sad, short story about a man named George who wears a matching dark blue shirt and corduroy trousers, his shirt buttoned to the neck with one of those silver metal noose things instead of a tie, making him look like a country-and-western singer. He borrows money from the first-person narrator, who is male, and is a writer, and his name is Charlie, because that's what George called him in my dream. "Charlie my boy" he says "We'll be able to retire to an island paradise with the money I'm going to make you." Charlie watches George deteriorate. His chin gets increasingly grey and stubbly, and his belt becomes pulled more tightly up so that he develops that nerdish look of a waistline above his real waist. He ends up homeless, sleeping on a hotel roof under garbage bags, and I think he's going to jump off in the end.