I am in a classroom. It looks like a room in my old high school.
It is a nice day and the sun streams through the windows.
I stand at a chalkboard with a class full of students. These are not high school students these are men and women who are all adults, their ages varying quite a bit.
The students all sit in rapt attention as I stand at the board lecturing. I draw some strange symbols on the chalkboard, discussing the significance of each symbol.
I glance down at my watch. It is noon.
"Let's take a break for lunch," I say.
The students in the room rise up from their desks. They head out a door in the back of the classroom, murmuring and chatting a bit with each other about the lecture.
I know that they will be going to some type of cafeteria or restaurant for lunch.
But, at the same time, I know that I am not supposed to eat there.
I look to my left.
Standing at the front of the classroom is a goat tied to a chair.
"That's lunch," I think.
I walk up to the goat. I look down and have an ornate long curved knife in my hand.
I cut the goat's throat and drag it in front of my desk.
I take the knife in both of my hands.
I chop off the goat’s head. The goat’s body falls to the floor.
I carefully place the head, blood gushing from the base of it, on the desk.
I get down on my knees and use the knife to skin the goat.
I look up and see a little mound in front of me. There is a spit and a fire is slowly burning.
I drag the goat's body to the mound.
I insert the spit into the goat and place it above the fire.
I notice as I turn the goat on the spit that there is a strange thing in the center of its belly -- it is like a hole, a couple of inches in diameter, to its insides, almost like a round window.
Around the hole, impressed into its body, are two circles. Between the circles are strange rune-like symbols, similar to the ones I drew on the board during the lecture.
There is good fire going and the goat is cooking pretty well.
I look up and see a hole in the ceiling. The sky shows through the hole -- the smoke drifts through the hole in the roof to the outside.
The goat is ready.
I rip off some of its flesh.
I look over at the desk. I see the head of the dead goat just sitting there, staring at me, blood steaming down the front of the desk.
I have to eat the goat, but the thought of doing so repulses me.
I need to eat the meat, but I cannot bring myself to do it.
I wonder why.
I think it’s a cute goat -- it would be like eating Bambi or something.
I feel sad for the goat.
Then I woke up.