The Writer's House

Part 1: I'm visiting a writer at his house to collect some materials from his peculiar office. The center of the room has a flat, square, white floor. Against the opposite wall from the door is a desk piled high with papers. To the left is a large, high-ceilinged area with white walls. The floor -- covered in a dark blue indoor-track-like material -- slopes up at a 45-degree angle, and there are a few large black spherical bean bags spread around. The right side has the same walls, ceiling, and carpet, but the floor is level, and about 8 feet below the place where I'm standing. In a dimly lit corner of the right area is a chair and desk, a bookshelf, and a bike. I wonder if there's a door somewhere to get to the lower level. Do you just jump down and climb back up?

Part 2: After leaving the writer's house, I'm outside at my car, which is parked at the end of a long driveway that leads up to house, a low and wide, dark wood number. The driveway is lined by shrubbery, next to which are long and narrow koi pools, fed by waterfalls coming off a ledge. I take a really long time putting stuff away in my car, opening and closing the trunk, opening and closing doors, and checking the tires. It's such a nice house, I almost don't want to leave. A lady -- presumably the writer's wife -- comes by with her dogs. We exchange pleasantries and I start playing around with one of her dogs, a caramel-colored pomeranian who is very cheerful. After some further banter with the lady, the subject matter of which is unclear, she goes back into the house.

Part 3: Suddenly, I find myself inside a bar. The walls, tables, and chairs are all wood. There is some kind of dispute going on, which is clear to me in the dream, but which I can't remember now. I am being talked to sternly at some point by some women. When I go outside, it is nighttime, and the parking lot is a sea of darkness with a few pools of light. Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I look around and then remember that I don't know how I got to the bar, and am afraid that I've left my car at the writer's house. I hold up my key fob and start pushing the buttons and walking around. After a few tense moments, I hear my car honk and see its lights flash. A wave of relief washes over me.