Soup in the South

While visiting a large, comfortable house somewhere in the South, I very unwisely chose to climb into a bathtub of chicken soup while fully clothed. I soon realized the folly of my situation, but fortunately there was a second bathroom right across the hallway where I could go to clean myself up. While in this second bathroom, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was drenched with chicken soup, and had had several days of beard stubble. As I focused on my image, I realized I was beginning to levitate above the floor by sheer will power. I floated throughout the bathroom, occasionally hovering near the window to see the beautiful sunset that was taking place outside. I found I could also levitate miscellaneous small objects in the bathroom with my mind, such as towels, and toss them about, leaving the room in a state of disarray. Then I found that I was outside. I flew over the hills and fields, remarking at the colorful landscape and winding roads. When later I returned to the house, I met a friend outside who suggested that I join her in a walk to her house in Oakland. I told her I still really needed to clean myself up, as the chicken soup I was drenched in had now become raw egg. I also decided that since I didn't remember coming outside, I must still be in the bathroom, projecting myself outside psychically. When I brought her to the bathroom to prove my strange claim, to my surprise, I wasn't already in there. But there were several startled people lounging amid the disarray I had earlier created. Later, I sat on the porch with the house's matron, discussing the constant arguments and disagreements she had with her daughter. While absently brushing a white long-stemmed flower against the steps, I gave her some very sage advice on how her daughter just needed to be herself.