Dreams.

I arrived at a theater in another city, but they were updating the interior via fire, so I headed to the hotel that was somehow attached to it. I'm standing there in the corridor, rummaging through my bags. A girl passes by, a little blonde in black, starts talking; I grin, we chat. And I have two bottles of 777 nemiroff or something like that; she asks if there's an extra one? I say there is, so we can share it (alco-gopnik mode). Then she vanished, a second girl walked down the corridor, also fair-haired, but already in white. We talked too, cracked some jokes. Then she also vanished and a third one appeared, a brunette this time. And again with the little jokes and insane pickup skills 666. Then somehow they all appeared and shifted to the periphery of perception, and a guy arrived, a head taller than me with chubby cheeks. He started crowing about something, talking familiarly to the first girl—it was obvious he knew her, but he was a jerk, looked like some kind of schoolboy—he had a specific blazer under his jacket. Well, I didn't care; I'd almost found what I was looking for in my bag. I think he was blond too. And he had a glass of milk in his hand, quite a bit of white color, probably Belarus. It felt like they all lived in the hotel or were some kind of "city kids." And there he is, standing and crowing, then suddenly starts acting tough with me, like, who even am I, what am I doing here, that I don't belong here, that I'm from a rich family—what is he rambling about? Totally incomprehensible. Talking to such losers is beneath me; he pissed me off, so I lightly tilted the glass of milk in his hand and he spilled it on himself. His friend had rolled up a couple of minutes before; at first, he tried to lead him away, looking like a more decent guy, lamenting "what have you done!", while this one just flew into a rage, got all worked up and puffed out, started approaching—well, of course, getting stained with milk is a disgrace. And I didn't understand what other outcome his friend could possibly expect under such conditions, so I slammed him in the windpipe. He started bringing his hands to his face, and I snapped my index finger out on my palm and just wanted to wiggle it to see how he would shake along with it, but he broke. And somehow he immediately shriveled up completely; it became unpleasant, a total disappointment. Then I returned to the bag, finally took out the item, and said goodbye to the girls. And I felt myself dissolving into the air.
And in the next room lay an elderly woman of eighty years, the owner of the hotel, trying to fall asleep. On my way to the corridor, for some reason, I tried to steal her pillow, then returned it. I thought that I needed it.