I am in an art class, flipping through my sketchbook past a lot of pages filled with highly stylized doodles, similar to the designs that were so popular when I was growing up. Everything on the pages is done in ink, in black and white. I realize, however, that the pen I have is not the one I use to draw so I go to get a pen. I walk through the corridor and into a hospital where I see a sign that says surgery and there is a place to sit, a lightly padded "couch" like the uncomfortable ones in waiting areas of emergency rooms designed not to be sat in for lengthy amounts of time. I know that someone I care about is in surgery and when I ask the hospital staff how much longer it will be, they tell me that I do not belong here, that I need to leave. When I point out to them that there is a place for me to wait, to hear the news about the surgery, they inform me that the couch is for family members, not me. Fine, I say. I have to go get some pens anyway. I leave and walk through a meadow before reaching my home where I find three of the types of pen I want--the black razor point with the yellow plastic thing on the cap. I grab all three and return to the class, walking arrogantly through the hospital where I am clearly not wanted, and enter the classroom only to realize that class is over and I am too late.