Lady and Gentlemen,

I come to you with a disturbing vision. Last night, I awoke at 3:43 am due to the effects of a nightmare. I saw Greg Monroe hiding in an attic. The attic was cramped and tiny, with its walls angling up to form a pyramid. There were only three features visible: the dusty wooden slats that made the floor, the pink insulation that was covering every inch of the wall and making Greg's lungs itch, and a human-sized opening with a ladder to get in. Monroe was hiding from what I could only call the soulless minions of orthodoxy. He could hear angry voices, the voices of Joe Dumars and two others that seemed familiar but he could not place. People were looking for him. Greg remained as silent as he could, barely even breathing. But then, a rooster appeared in the attic. Before Monroe could do anything, the cock crowed. Instantly, the smiling face of Timothy Duncan showed in the attic. "You're being traded to the Spurs," Duncan said.

Do you want to know the worst part of the whole experience? I wasn't just watching. I was the moose.