Getting pulled up from the bottom of the sea, something is chasing me. It’s going after my feet. It grabs onto my hand-just a big fish. Come up, it’s a nice trout and still attached to my hand. Drive through the streets, look at it close. Its eyes are all wonky, and I say, “you’re regretting this now, right?” Get home, it’s Trump’s, he doesn’t want to see the fish, and a servant puts it on a plate. Go upstairs and climb onto a ledge.
Walk into a shop, it’s new agey junk. There’s a guy sitting at a table making ornaments. He sees me and shows me what he’s making-it’s got a ton of stuff on it. Something about “Orlando Guzman”.